


Chiaroscuro

by semiiramiis (HikaruAdjani)



Series: Servant of the One True King [2]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HikaruAdjani/pseuds/semiiramiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Besseth may be gone, but the families she left behind are still in play...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The ball rested just outside of her reach, and the girl glared impotently at it. She had tried reaching through the slats in the gate, and could come close, but not quite close enough, to touch it. She had tried climbing the gate, but it was designed well to hold in the generations of toddlers it had been used against. The child glanced back, at the cot behind her, but he slept. Her twin was slightly larger than she was, and might be able to reach the ball, but he would only cry if she woke him.

"Grrrh." She breathed throatily, again resting on her belly and squirming to reach, again with no luck. She heard the click of boot heels against the plank floor beyond, and glanced up. Her expression brightened immediately and she stood, watching the form slide from the shadows before her.

"Ah." The man breathed, capturing the ball and stepping towards the gate. "Lost this, little one?"

She held her hands out for it, and he rested it gently within her grasp. She grinned, a lovely and wide smile, and did not struggle when he lifted her from her feet and rested her weight against his chest. "Beautiful, beautiful one." He sighed, stepping over the gate and moving into the dark silence of the room. He rested her in her cot, leaning against it to sing a soothing lullaby to her. "You need to sleep when it is dark." He stated, and she pouted.

"Don't want to." She hissed, and he chuckled.

"Still. Sleep when your twin does. For now. We come for you later, Tabitha." He glanced at the deeply asleep boy, still oblivious. "We come for you later."

Aislinn Tiegan sighed, resting her forehead against her palm. War was for the young, that she understood, and she was young no more. Her place was to support the young, her young, which now fought. And part of that was to give them a safe, secure place to leave their little ones. So she, and her husband, was proud to raise their grandchildren while their children fought in Northrend.

Their grandchildren, yes. But the youngest of her children had brought her children which were not his. Claimed they were his responsibility and his honor to raise. A little boy with wide, innocent brown eyes. A little boy with an eager smile and a puppy wiggle. A little boy named after greatness, Tirion. That one had fit into the clutch of young ones like he was born to. A scion of paladins, Anselm had claimed, the heir of two great and wondrous members of the Order. And Aislinn could believe that.

But the other was strange and contrary. A little girl, Tabitha, whom Anselm doted on. Quiet. Brooding. Watchful. She hated certain people on sight, and trusted few others. She babbled nonsense words to empty corners and dark shadows, and watched the other children as if they were oddities conjured up for her amusement. Also supposedly the scion of paladins, twinned of young Rion, and that Aislinn had issues with. The child held a darkness within her that did not seem to fit with the admittedly sparse story that Anselm had seen fit to grant them when he'd dropped the children off. Why would Anselm, of all people, be responsible for two of the Order's orphans? Why would he have willingly taken that up? Why had he been allowed to? Even now, the child sang to herself, no song that Aislinn had ever heard, a haunting melody with nonsense syllables. Even now, the child was alone, steadfastly ignoring the children playing outside in the yard. And Aislinn found herself watching the toddler more and more, as if expecting something she couldn't figure out.

"Tabitha." She called, and the little girl appeared, dragging a disreputable toy sheep by one sagging leg.

"Da, Meya?" The little girl asked, and Aislinn sighed. Half the time it seemed as if she spoke an entirely different language. Except that was ridiculous. The child had supposedly been raised in Stormwind. By the Order.

The child should be adorable. She hinted at a beauty to come later, eyes that changed colors depending on her moods, blue, green, gray. Thick, deep, reddish blonde hair. A flawless, rose and cream complexion. "There are kittens in the barn." Aislinn stated, and the girl nodded, dragging the sheep along behind her as she moved for the yard. The child harmed nothing, was amazingly cautious with small newborns, and could be trusted with the new lives. "It's our secret." Aislinn cautioned, and the little girl paused.

"No." She disagreed. "John knows they're there. But I told him, he can't hurt them."

"And John listens to you?" Aislinn asked. Tabitha wasn't the first to come up with an imaginary friend, and the best way was to just go along with it. At least, on this subject, she spoke Common.

"Declan told him to. So he does…." Tabitha shrugged. "Mostly."

Why wasn't Aislinn at all surprised that this one wouldn't find one imaginary friend enough? John was a common name, but Declan was not. And oddly, for a girl child, neither were female names. "John listens to Declan?"

"Mostly."

"And John's a man?"

"No." The little girl clambered up on the chair across from Aislinn. "He's not. Declan says he's like a dog that can fly." She scrunched up her nose and awkwardly patted the sheep's head. "But dogs don't talk, do they?"

"No, sweetie, dogs don't talk. But John does?"

"Not good." The girl pondered the toy. "And dogs don't fly."

"John flies?"

The little girl nodded, and Aislinn swallowed concern. What, exactly, had Anselm left with her? This had gone beyond a childhood fancy; she could feel it deep in her gut. "Go see the kitties, Tabitha."

"Alright, Meya." The girl slithered down and was gone. Aislinn watched her go for a long moment before following. The kittens were in the barn loft, and the horses were in the barn. And Aislinn needed a horse, for the trip to Stormwind.

"I am Aislinn Tiegan." She told the young paladin guarding the gates. She didn't recognize him, but then, most of the paladins she had served with were long dead. But the family name still resonated within the Order; she'd given it five children. All still in service. "I need access to the Order's rolls." She'd see about this child of paladins story….

"Of course, Lady Tiegan. With me." He nodded to his companion, and led the way down. She knew the way, but did not argue with his silent insistence to accompany her. "The rolls." He gestured vaguely at the stored books. "Which were you looking for?"

She considered. Anselm gave the twins' ages as three, and for the most part, she'd believe it. The girl seemed a good bit older, wiser, and more devious than that, but physically, both seemed an older three. "Last five years."

He rested the five volumes before her, and excused himself. She took the most recent, and flipped to Anselm's entry.

"Tiegan, Anselm. 21. Northrend offensive, Icecrown. Dependents, Tirion and Tabitha Kellemen."

There was more, but that was enough to make Aislinn blink. Kellemen? Tirion and Tabitha Kellemen? While that family line was noble, and Aislinn cared little for Stormwind nobility, it had produced exactly one male she considered worthy, and she flipped the pages.

"Kellemen, Tibault. 40. On extended leave, Elwynn district. Dependents, Tirion and Tabitha Kellemen. Widower- Besseth Kellemen, died Northrend offensive…"

The mental count startled Aislinn, according to the date given, the children had been born the same year Tibault Kellemen's wife had died. And Aislinn had never even heard that there had been a wife…in the Order, no less. She took the book from the year that the children had been born, and apparently, their mother had been lost.

"Kellemen, Besseth. (Southcross). Lost Northrend offensive."

Aislinn sighed, frowned. So far, exactly as Anselm had claimed. Children of two paladins, one lost in Northrend, the other….Tibault Kellemen. And it had given so many more questions than answers. According to the rolls, Tibault Kellemen still lived, but she was raising his children. His wife, whom she had never heard of, was dead. "I don't understand."

"Don't understand what, Aislinn?"

Even after all these years, Aislinn knew that voice. "Why Tibault Kellemen is not raising his own children? Why Anselm was, and why I am now?" It was the safest part to start with.

"Losing his wife has brought Tibault to his knees. He is unfit to raise her children as he is now. They are Anselm's until Tibault is strong enough to be their father again."

"Why Anselm, Tirion? He's young. They are no relation to him…"

The Highlord sat across from her at the table, his gaze calm. "In blood, no. In heart, yes. You bridle at raising the children of the Order? If they are a hardship, if you are unwilling, we will not see them in place they are not welcomed…"

"The little girl is…" What, precisely, Aislinn did not know. "…difficult." She settled upon. "Odd. Wrong. Touched by darkness, for all that she apparently comes from paladins? I know Tibault Kellemen. His soul is bathed in the Light. Their mother was a paladin, for all that I've never heard of her…"

"Besseth was with us but a short and fleeting time. She came late to the Order, and did not survive long. But the hold she had on Tibault, and indeed Anselm, should not be underestimated. But, returning to Tabitha…what has the child done to disturb you so?"

"She is…bizarre, Highlord." How to put into words things that were mostly feelings? "She feels…dark. She hates people within a moment of meeting them. She seems both older than she is, and younger at the same time. Most of the time she babbles like a babe barely walking, then turns around and carries on a conversation as if she is much older than she is. She would stay awake all night and sleep all day if we'd permit it. She is the only child I know who has two imaginary friends…both male…who talk about each other. Rudely, I might add."

"Rudely?"

"The one calls the other…as she puts it…a dog that flies. She seems disturbed, Highlord."

"A dog that flies. And do these…imaginary…friends have names, Aislinn? You call them male…"

"John and Declan."

The Highlord's face stilled, his eyes going dark. "And John is the dog who flies." He breathed. "Aislinn. These are not imaginary friends. I'm afraid they're quite real. Please. Come with me, there is another I need to get before we delve into this."

Another? And Tirion did not dismiss the words of a three year old out of hand, as most would. Aislinn was led to Tirion's office, and shown a seat. He stepped out for a moment, and then returned, sitting in his own seat to wait. He was silent as he did so, and Aislinn was unwilling to break the silence he seemed so willing to cultivate. After awhile, there was a booming, ominous knock at the door.

"In." Tirion ordered, and Aislinn's stomach fell as the door opened. The man in the doorway was large, his clothing dark. He reeked of death and a twisted wrongness. She felt an urge she had not felt in years, and wished she bore a weapon to attack this one on sight. It was a death knight. She knew them. She'd eluded them before. She knew some had supposedly left the Scourge, but deep in her heart, she doubted.

"Darion. Good of you to come so quickly." Tirion breathed, and Aislinn felt even more ill. Mograine. The son of the great Ashbringer. Fallen, never to be returned to them. "This is Aislinn Tiegan." His identification of her, allowing this one to see her, remember her, recognize her, felt like a betrayal and Aislinn stared back. "Anselm Tiegan's mother."

"My honor, lady." He took the final remaining seat, his lambent blue eyes flicking between Tirion and Aislinn. "Why am I here, Tirion?" He finally asked when the silence grew long.

"With Anselm in Northrend…doing what he is doing…Aislinn has been given custody of the Kellemen twins."

The death knight leaned back in the chair, his expression guarded. "And?" He finally pushed.

"There are…issues….with young Tabitha." Tirion glanced at Aislinn. "Only Tabitha, or is the boy also a problem?"

"Rion is a wonderful child." She stated slowly, knowing how empty it sounded because she could not say the same about the other. "Tabitha is…difficult. And now you tell me her imaginary friends are not imaginary?" The death knight stared at Tirion, who nodded slowly under the weight of his stare.

"Imaginary friends who are not." Mograine breathed. "Let me hazard a guess. Declan."

"Declan and John." The Highlord affirmed, and the death knight went silent, pensively regarding the window. "How much of a problem is this, Mograine? What am I looking at here?"

"Difficult how?" Mograine seemed willing to ignore, or push back, Tirion's question.

"She dislikes certain people immediately, on sight." Tirion was willing to answer, and let his question hang. "She speaks what to Aislinn seems to be a babble. She seems both too old for her age, and oddly too young for her age. She has marked nocturnal leanings. Anselm adores her…."

"Because she is so much like her mother." Mograine pushed out his chair to stand, and pace. "Which would have attracted Declan, as well. Losing Besseth was a blow. If her daughter is much like her, Tirion, the child is bound to attract attention. Unwanted attention. Declan will stay close to the twins merely because they are her children, and he would cherish them for that. Others of her children will do the same. The only words that bother me in this are that…" Those eyes fell on Aislinn, and she felt the stillness she had always felt facing darkness. "She dislikes people immediately? Unreasoningly? And cannot be swayed once that split second determination has been made?"

"Exactly."

"She likes paladins? The better the paladin, the more quickly and easily she takes to them? You? Your husband? Anselm's siblings?"

"Yeeesssss…."

"But ordinary people are beneath her? Those who do not hold the power to wield the weight of their souls? The more powerful a creature, the more drawn she is to it?"

Put that way, that obviously, Aislinn could only nod. "So." The death knight locked eyes with Tirion. "Tabitha Kellemen has probably inherited her mother's gift. She has the attention of her mother's most devoted of children…who has bothered to spend enough time with her to, by my guess, teach her at least the rudiments of Thalassian and totally borked her sleep schedule. Is that what you wanted to hear from me?"

"I wanted you to guess what Declan will do with this information."

Mograine sat, frowning. "The question is how much of it Declan can hide from his master and his less trustworthy siblings… if he is the same as he was before. He belongs to the Lich King, Tirion. There is little he really can hide. A replacement for Besseth would be priceless."

"I don't understand." Aislinn finally broke in, too confused to let the questions remain unaired. "This Besseth is Tabitha's mother, according to the census. Tibault Kellemen's wife. A paladin….?"

"Besseth was an exemplary paladin." Tirion brooded, while the death knight snorted in disgust.

"An exemplary paladin." Mograine mocked. "That was a disaster from the beginning, Tirion. Of all the hare brained ideas, that one had to stand at the pinnacle. That doomed Besseth. Once she was on that path, there was no good end…"

"You think I have not thought that a thousand times, Mograine? You think that I have not considered the fact that I played a great role in destroying Besseth? Tibault? I just don't know what I should have done differently. She would not have gone with you, even at the beginning, so do not bring that up as an option. Besseth is dead. She cannot be returned to us."

Aislinn glanced between the pair, beyond confused and not bothering to hide it. How could a woman being an exemplary paladin, such a superlative statement from the greatest living paladin, be such a bad thing that Tirion considered it something he should be blamed for? She would have loved to hear him label her anything close to that.

"Besseth was a death knight, Tirion. Her heart, her soul, her every last breath belonged to the master. You meddled in things you should have not."

A death knight? What were the two of them babbling on about? Aislinn felt like her presence had been pushed away, and that these two were finally having an argument long in coming.

"What would you have had me do, Mograine? Since you seem to understand this so well?"

"Besseth should have been executed, or jailed, immediately upon her capture. Both would have been preferable to this…debacle."

"Both would have given the Lich King Besseth as a true death knight." Tirion growled. "Jailed…they would have come for her. Executed, they would have come for her. She would be raised, standing behind him."

"It would have spared Tibault. Anselm. Her children. My people. The Light does not conquer all. It didn't save Besseth when the Lich King came for her."

"So…" Some glimmers of sense were beginning to peek through. "This…Besseth…was a death knight before she was initiated into the Order?" It was a difficult idea to swallow, but if true, would make sense of much of Tabitha's oddities. Tibault had always leaned towards the impossible tasks, and redeeming a death knight would have been a task he would have relished.

"Besseth Southcross trained death knights for the Lich King before she was captured at Light's Hope. I gave her into Tibault's custody then because I felt she was redeemable. She made a wonderful paladin…"

"Until he came to reclaim her. Two weeks after she had those babies. She was allowed to give birth, Tirion, and died for her crimes afterwards. I should have had custody of her. I would have handled it better."

"She disliked you." The Highlord sighed, defeat in his voice. This was obviously ground he had been over many, many times before, if not with this one, if not with another, then in his own mind.

"Besseth disliked everyone who wasn't worthy. That was just how she was. Even as a paladin, Tirion. I wouldn't have tried to make her anything she wasn't going to be. Or worse, could have been, had things gone differently. I would have left her as she was."

"A dying, mediocre death knight?"

"A dying, mediocre death knight." Mograine confirmed. " But now, we seem to be revisiting this, all over again, in the person of her daughter. Can we do better this time, Tirion? Learn from our mistakes?"

Tirion raked fingers through his thinning, silver hair, annoyed and not bothering to hide it. "How do you suggest we do that, Mograine?"

"You want the brutal, honest truth?"

"I think I don't, but you're going to tell me anyway." Tirion chuckled, but there was little humor in his tone.

"Give Declan the child. Now." Those eyes, so blue, turned to Aislinn. "Only the one is odd, correct? The little boy seems normal? Doesn't seem to have these imaginary friends?"

"He is just fine." Aislinn was stunned by the suggestion. Give away the child that Anselm loved so much? The child he had given into her safe keeping? "Who is this Declan? And what is this John?"

"Declan Noonshimmer is one of the Lich King's death knights. A great and fine one. The first of the ones that Besseth raised from the dead and marked as her own. Her firstborn, along with his twin brother, Diarmid. John is the family…pet. A geist."

"You want to give a three year old child, Tibault Kellemen's daughter, to a death knight." Tirion growled, shaking his head. "That will destroy Tibault irrevocably. And Anselm…. No. He adores that child."

Mograine stared back. "So we do this all over again?" He finally demanded. "Try to take something from the Lich King which he will consider rightfully his. Something he will value. Try to keep Besseth's family away from her flesh and blood child, the one who now takes after her. Allow more paladins, members of your Order, to love and cherish her. And then let the fight erupt over her? No one won with Besseth, Tirion. She lies dead in Stormwind's chapel."

"I know that! I gave her marriage oaths in that chapel, and I was the one who laid her to rest in that chapel. I counted Besseth as a sister of mine, under arms. She trained Anselm into one of the finest young paladins currently serving in the Order. I valued her as much as…" The Highlord's voice faded off and he stood to stare out of the window. "This is.."

"Very sad. You could always give the child to me… I have a better chance of keeping Declan at bay than most. Raise her in Acherus, understanding what she is and what she can be."

"Raise a child in a necropolis." Tirion's voice condemned the very idea, and Aislinn felt ill. She had problems with Tabitha, but not to the extent of sending her off to live in a bastion of darkness. And Anselm loved the child.

"Declan will raise the child in Icecrown if he gets the chance. You know that."

"He hasn't tried yet."

"Declan is one of the wiser of Besseth's children. He'd rather have someone else…" those blue, blue eyes fell on Aislinn, "Raise a baby he knows he's unfit to raise. When she's bigger, he'll decide that he and Bredit are up to the task from there. Just because he's dead doesn't mean he's not brilliant, Tirion. Don't believe he won't try to make what he believes are the right decisions for this child. Don't believe he can't love, in his own way. Those that Besseth created are special."

It was daylight, but Kel'thuzad was still awake. Since death had given him the gift of endless time, he often spent long spates of time consumed by a project, and today was little different. The man in the room with him was becoming tired, and that was part of his weakness for refusing to give up his body when he'd given up his life. Declan could have been a lich, with his magical aptitude and training, but he had instead refused to leave his mother to come train with Kel'thuzad. She had tied his soul strongly to his body, intertwining, interweaving an intricate tapestry that the lich could not determine the beginning and end of. And that was precisely what held his fascination this day. The children of Besseth were superlative examples of what they sought to create. Somehow, she had managed these. Still clinging stubbornly to her own life, only a pale imitation of a death knight, she had borne the magical aptitude to create…these. And Kel'thuzad could respect that. More to the point, he could begin to see, with the tools at his disposal, a way to fix one of his failures. Failing the master was a shame he would rise above, finally.

"I need Besseth's remains returned to me." He breathed, and the quel'dorei gazed warily back.

"Why?" Declan demanded. "It is an insult that she lies in Stormwind, so far from us, but why do you need her back? For what? She's not an experiment…."

That was precisely what she was, but the lich knew better than to say that outwardly. "A thought has occurred to me, Declan. A very, very fascinating thought that I want to see through. Besseth would not rise for me. Besseth would not rise for the master….a disturbing idea, but one that was. Perhaps what Besseth needs would be to be risen by…Besseth. Only the best, for the best?"

"Besseth is dead. She cannot raise herself."

If the lich could, he would have sighed. Perhaps that was why Declan clung to a corporeal form; such linear thinking from one that Kel'thuzad knew was capable of such brilliant leaps of logic and insight. "Besseth is dead." He agreed slowly. "She cannot raise herself. However… We both know we have another showing Besseth's gifts. Only the best to raise the best, Declan. I am willing to swallow my pride on this one, to serve Him best. Besseth turned away from me, but would she turn away from her own daughter? A daughter that, it is beginning to seem, has the potential to raise death knights on the same level as Besseth could? Think on it, Declan. We have time. The child is still very young, too young to try yet. But… if someone in the Order, in the Church, has a flash of insight and destroys Besseth's remains, then this final hope is taken from us. Your mother would be irrevocably gone. I will have failed our master without a way to make amends."

The epiphany flashed across Declan's face. "I…see." He breathed slowly. "That…might….just work, Kel'thuzad."

The lich remained silent. Of course it might work. That went without saying. "Get me Besseth's remains, Declan. Before something unfortunate happens to them."

Get Besseth's remains back. From the consecrated depths of Stormwind's chapel. Not long before, that would have been insanity neck and neck with impossibility, but that was also before Darion Mograine had done the groveling and sniveling necessary to actually get honest to goodness death knights walking the streets of Stormwind. Declan would be too recognizable, too many of the remaining quel'dorei would recognize him on sight, but Raien was not. He was from Lordaeron, and Lordaeron had fallen. The few who might recognize him were Forsaken, and those did not walk Stormwind's streets. Why Declan had decided that he suddenly needed Besseth returned was beyond Raien, but Raien was bored enough, and now curious enough, to play along. And certainly, Besseth should have never been removed from the Cathedral of Darkness during its desecration. She had been theirs much longer than she had ever been a paladin. The thought made him spit onto the dusty road leading into Stormwind. The Order had come late to Besseth's life, and now they had the nerve to believe that they should hold her remains. Besseth wouldn't be dead and gone if it were not for the Order's meddling. They had dangled the one thing she could not resist before her, another child, and destroyed her with that. He missed her. His family had not been the same since her death.

He was not the only death knight on the streets, but it had been laughably easy to secure the correct gear to pass himself off as one of Mograine's clutch of fools. And Raien had always had one of those faces that blended in with a crowd. Unlike Declan, and his identical twin Diarmid, who were born to be noticed, be recognized, Raien was simply normal looking. Nothing noteworthy at all. It was one of his greatest gifts, and he wouldn't trade it for the world.

He paused at a corner, thoughtfully surveying his surroundings. He felt…another. Familiar. Mograine, here in Stormwind, instead of at Acherus, where he belonged. That was fine. Mograine was unworthy, and would not stand in his way. He moved on, deeper into Stormwind, studiously avoiding the Order's stronghold, and most of the paladins on the streets. He cut through the docks, coming up behind the Cathedral.

The Light was supposed to be accessible by all, even Mograine's misanthropes, and he was merely watched as he boldly walked in. Ironically, he discovered her resting place, in almost the same corresponding point she had lain in the Cathedral of Darkness. "Good morning, Mother." He whispered, resting his fingertips against the cold stone. "We've come for you."

Aislinn startled at the sudden eruption of noise in the hall, dragging her attention from the two males locked in stares before her. They both startled as well, Darion making it to the door first and throwing it open. There was a paladin standing in the hallway, breathless.

"Milords!" He yelped, "There are death knights in the Cathedral!"

"Death knights in the Cathedral?" Mograine echoed dubiously, "Why…?"

"No, my lord! Not of the Ebon Blade! These are death knights! Of the Scourge! They're attacking the Cathedral as I speak…" Mograine pushed him aside, and he stayed pushed aside as Tirion and Aislinn followed.

The courtyard before the majestic Cathedral foamed with chaos, people fleeing the building while guards pushed towards it. There were two men framing the main entrance, and Aislinn blinked. First, because they were two of the most majestic creatures she had ever clapped eyes on, beautiful as only quel'dorei males could be… long sunset blond hair, tall, imposing. Secondly, because they were a matched set, impossible to tell apart. And thirdly, because they were obviously at least two of the death knights assaulting the Cathedral, harnessed in ossified, midnight black armor, their cloaks bearing the symbol of the Scourge army. They allowed those who were fleeing free passage between them, their attention firmly focused on those moving towards the Cathedral instead of away from it.

"Declan and Diarmid." Mograine hissed from beside Aislinn. "They've come for Besseth's remains. We can assume the others are in the Cathedral…"

"So there are at least nine of them… If they didn't bring help."

"Yes. My guess is that they have help. This is bold…"

Tirion cursed, galvanizing into motion. The nearest of the two death knights turned to watch him come, and the moment Tirion, with Darion just a step behind him, hit the apron of steps leading to the main doors, the pair of quel'dorei spun as one, retreating into the depths of the Cathedral.

They were not here to make a stand, Aislinn knew, they were here for a snatch and grab. They'd probably had all the time they needed to complete it, already. She wasn't surprised that the interior of the cathedral was quiet, empty, the death knights long gone. The only hint of their presence was a shattered face stone and three dead priests.

All the pieces. Collect all the pieces before anyone else could put them together and understand. Mograine would already be pushing to get Tabitha, he was the most informed. But he probably wouldn't grasp what Kel'thuzad had told Declan. Use Tabitha, correctly raised and trained, to raise Besseth. It was brilliant in its simplicity. Brilliant in its insight. Only the best, the lich had promised, and he was correct. If anyone could do it, it would be Tabitha.

"Beautiful little one." He breathed in the only language he had ever used with the little girl, the language of his own childhood. She was cocooned in a nest of straw, admiring a litter of new kittens. She raised eyes to him, a fleeting grin chasing its way across her face.

"Declan!" She whispered. "Baby kitties."

"I see them, Tabitha." He felt them as well, tiny, fragile little lives. He waited, well beyond their range. They were too delicate for him to approach without killing, and that would bother the child. "It's time to go." Yes, now that they had played their hand, this casual security around the child would end. Acherus would not be so easy to get in and out of. "Get your sheep."

She nodded, rescued the abused toy from its resting place, and came right back to him. She held up her hands to be picked up, and Declan obliged, and within a moment, Tabitha Kellemen was gone.

Anselm Tiegan seethed. "So. They took both Besseth's body and Tabitha. Within a half hour period?" And had left a puzzled and crying Rion behind.

"Declan left Stormwind immediately after the attack on the Cathedral, to go get Tabitha." Tirion sighed, and Anselm's eyes moved from the Highlord to the dark form behind him. Mograine remained silent, as he had since the beginning of this.

"I don't understand why they went after Besseth's body." He finally admitted when Anselm's gaze stopped on him. "I understand why they went after Tabitha, but the other was outright foolish. Assaulting Stormwind. In broad daylight. To reclaim something they really have no use for. Certainly, they hold Besseth in high regard, but it was a dangerous move with little reason. It is not as if the Order was insulting, injuring, her remains. She was laid to rest with honor and respect. They had their time to raise her, and she didn't. And this…required outside help. I understand that they got one of them in, probably Raien, masquerading as one of my people." He frowned bitterly. "Everything after that required a mage. An archmage."

"In other words, a lich, or an archlich." Anselm retorted, and Darion nodded.

"All those I know would not just volunteer for this. They'd want something in return. Or were under orders from the Throne. And this was a good one. The Kirin Tor may be able to tell you which one it was."

"But they left Rion." Anselm grumbled, and Mograine shrugged.

"According to your mother, Tabitha is the one Declan has been looking at for a long time. There are hints…" He glanced at Tirion. "That she inherited much of her mother. If she has the ability to judge the worthy, as Besseth did…"

"Will they…harm her?"

"I do not believe they will. Declan is an odd sort. I would have loved to have convinced him to follow me, but he would not. He is almost redeemable. He will hold his family sacred. Tabitha is part of that. He will protect her and keep her if he can."

Bredit stared at Declan. He had lost his mind. Somehow, some way, he had. "So." She began slowly, eying the child asleep in his bed. "We…assaulted Stormwind Cathedral. Took Besseth's body… and her daughter, while Kel'thuzad handled the portals?" That was the difficult part. How had Declan managed to convince Kel'thuzad, of all entities, to play a part in this?

"You were there." Declan muttered. "How are her remains?"

Odd question, and Bredit pondered it. "She is just as she was. The magic does not wane. How did you convince Kel'thuzad to go along with this idea?" Answering that would answer so many questions.

"It was Kel'thuzad's idea."

Kel'thuzad's idea. That made this that much more interesting. She sat patiently on the ottoman beside the empty fireplace, watching the one who had preceded her in death. He was the one they all looked to when Besseth was absent, and with her death, that meant always now. He had held them together this long, and she was willing to still work with him.

"Besseth was the best at raising us. Her call was strong, and she tied us strongly to ourselves."

Bredit nodded slowly. She understood that better than he could hope to. Declan had been an aspiring mage before he'd been cut down and then raised. Nothing in his background, upbringing, explained to him the level of just what Besseth accomplished. Accomplished with no training, only from the power of her soul and a mind boggling ability. If the woman had been trained…raised… her eyes fell on the slumbering toddler. If she had been found at that age, carefully pruned and painstakingly taught, the world would have trembled before her.

Bredit had been a priest, well versed in the matters of souls and their relationships to their bodies. She understood that Besseth had been a prodigy, immensely gifted.

"Tabby…" He motioned at the toddler, "Has begun to show many of Besseth's abilities. Kel'thuzad believes she may exhibit that one as well."

"To raise Besseth." It all fell together, and she didn't need to see his affirming nod. "We have her now. Raise her here, with the upbringing that Besseth lacked. She would be…"

"Glorious. And Kel'thuzad believes she might be able to raise Besseth."

"Raise….Besseth." Bredit frowned. "Declan, Besseth did not want to raise."

"I refuse to believe that Besseth wanted to cease to be." He sighed. "Besseth got caught in a no win place. I refuse to believe that she would want to leave that..." He jerked his chin at the sleeping babe. "Behind. Us, behind. I can't believe that. She wouldn't abandon us, Bred. She wouldn't. This way, none of us have her. Not us. Not her flesh and blood children. Not the Master. Not the Order. Not Tibault. Not Anselm. This isn't her way."

"It's worth the try." Bredit finally admitted. At least there was some reason behind this insanity. Something approaching logic, even if it was Kel'thuzad's often bizarre thoughts. She had felt Besseth's call. If her child could even come close to that, then yes, they had a chance. And a hope to hold their family together. "So we raise the little one?" That was not such a bad prospect. It had grown past the blob stage. It was adorable, stamped with Besseth's undeniable maternity. It seethed with its own internal power.

"We raise the little one. But not here. Nor do we keep Besseth here. That did not work so well the last time."

Bredit wrinkled her nose in thought. "Besseth is not decomposing."

"She is not."

"Then she doesn't have to be treated as a corpse. What is the point in burying her? The Order will look for her, buried. We can put her any number of places until the little one is ready to try." She stared at the toddler for a long moment. "And the other one?"

"Other one?" He repeated, his gaze drawn outside of the windows, his thoughts miles away.

"There are two of them. Tabitha and Tirion. What about the boy? Surely you weren't so overwhelmed by the idea of the little girl that you never bothered to take a look at the male?"

"Do you think I am that blind?" He demanded, craning to glare down at her. Bredit had long since stopped letting the massive sizes of Besseth's chosen sons annoy her, and merely glared back. "No. I am not that blind. The boy is Tibault Kellemen's son, by his paladin wife. I make him cry. I make him sidle away from me and look for someone else to come rescue him from my presence. I can already sense the stirrings of the Light within his soul. It is as if this one is the death knight's child," he waved at Tabitha, "And the other is the paladin's. One for each facet of her soul. One for this family. One for the other."

Perhaps it really was that simple. Fates worked in mysterious ways. "So you seek to raise her elsewhere. Away from the target that is Icecrown?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Definitely." He agreed. If he was to raise Besseth's babe, then Icecrown was no place for her. Too much depended on the child growing up, maturing, living, that he would not take that risk. "We go to the keep." The king had been lavish with those in his favor, and Declan's family had always been that. The home given to Besseth, high in the Fjords… She had rarely journeyed there, happy to stay ensconced at the Citadel, living in her chambers, but it still rested empty, waiting.

"I'll begin packing. I assume this is a long term stay…for both of us?"

He nodded, relieved that Bredit didn't make him ask. He couldn't do this alone, and those he usually turned to for aid were equally as inept… Diarmid had remained distant, silent, once he comprehended what was going on. Khraben was trustworthy, but also wasn't one that Declan saw raising a small child. Raien, possibly, but they couldn't strip away all of their presence in serving the King, and Raien had been called elsewhere in his service. For all of her genius, Ellorie was unfit to raise one of Besseth's blooded children, too flighty and nervous. "Yes." He murmured, "A long term stay."

Kel'thuzad appeared in the main hall of Besseth's Fjord keep, pausing. It felt empty, waiting, in spite of the work he knew had been heaped upon it lately. "Declan." He breathed, and the quel'dorei turned from staring out of the high windows. "You bring the daughter of Besseth here."

Annoyance flicked across the elf's face, but Declan regained control of himself quickly and schooled his expression back into calm distain. "I do."

Kel'thuzad nodded. It made sense, and pretty much all of Besseth's children came equipped with a good dose of common sense. It was one of their trademark attributes, no matter what; they lacked the stupidity that so often came with being risen. "You and Bredit seek to train a necromancer." He didn't need to point out the lack of sense in that. Bredit was a fallen priest, Declan a fallen mage. Neither one of them was suited to the purpose of training Tabitha. Raising her, probably, schooling her, never.

"We'll do our best." Declan returned warily, and Kel'thuzad floated across the floor.

"I gave you the only hope you have of regaining Besseth." He whispered, and Declan did not bother to rein in the wary expression at those words. "I made it possible for you to breach Stormwind's defenses and regain her remains. I removed you and the child from Elwynn…"

"I understand that we owe, Kel'thuzad."

Good. Few fools here, he'd always found the group of them remarkably easy to deal with. Besseth had taught them the fine arts of debt all too well. They'd work to discharge it as quickly as possible… "Yet, I cannot help teach Tabitha." A nagging admission, but still, Kel'thuzad had learned the key to learning was to realize when one had the opportunity to do so. "Besseth kept a library." At least he hoped she did. It was almost too much for him to consider that a necromancer didn't, but then, Besseth had never abided by the rules.

"Kel'thuzad. Not in that way… she was never taught how to do what she did. You knew her then…"

Yes, Kel'thuzad had known Besseth from the beginning of his unlife; she had already fallen in with the Majesty by that point, along to gain his immortal return. She had ridden to the Sunwell, behind Arthas, one of the original followers. She had been filthy, hungry, ignorant… but still, on the plateau, had stood in the dying sunshine and raised not only Declan, but Diarmid, works of art so fine he couldn't begin to understand. He understood Declan's doubts, Besseth had not been taught… He was counting on something else altogether. Besseth had been a teacher. Had she had enough comprehension, a grasp of her gifted art, to put the theories down after she'd been taught by Declan and Diarmid, fallen Kirin Tor mages? After she'd been taught by Bredit the ways of a soul? After she'd had free rein in Icecrown's great libraries to give her gift a vocabulary? If she had, it was written…for the Master. For him. For her children.

"I know there was no library which taught Besseth, Declan. I'm praying that she left us her theories. Her understanding of what she did. As a mentor, a servant, the holder of a great gift. Her library, Declan. Her grimoires. The works she must have left us…?"

"She kept journals…"

If the lich could have smiled, he would have. Of course she had, Besseth was too earthly to refer to her body of work by any fancy magely terms as grimoires and libraries. She had kept everyday journals. "May I?"

Declan sighed, spinning from the window and striding across the room. "Of course." He stated, opening one of the doors off from it. "My mother's library." He breathed, walking in. Kel'thuzad drifted behind him, pausing on the threshold. Besseth had indeed kept a library, a quite respectable one at that.

"So I have your permission, as her eldest child, to use her library?"

Declan eyed him warily, the Kirin Tor would have taught him enough to look askance at the request, and Kel'thuzad remained still and silent. "Yes." Declan finally agreed. "You do."

Ah. Good. Kel'thuzad floated serenely into the center of the room, casting a lambent blue circle around himself. This was only part of Besseth's library, a good portion was missing, and he knew exactly where it was. He wasn't going back to Stormwind to assault the Order to get them, not when he had Declan's permission and access to the heart of her library. "Come. Be whole." He demanded, and the first book appeared in thin air and fell to the floor in front of him. Others came, a rain of tomes, but still…one stubborn holdout kept the spell going. "Come." He snarled, channeling power. There was silence, and then a sullen thump as the final book fell.

"Agh." Declan hissed, moving away, and Kel'thuzad himself stared at it warily. Of course a paladin of the Argent Crusade possessed a Tome of Divinity. And that was exactly what Besseth had been at the moment she had perished. Arthas's had been destroyed upon his corruption, but Besseth had died uncorrupt, still tied to hers.

"My apologies, Declan. I should have realized that was the book that didn't wish to come." No, that one had wanted to stay exactly where it had been, in Besseth's empty crypt in Stormwind.

"It is hers." Declan sighed, shaking his head and walking to the book. He picked it up from the floor, turning it over in his hands. That was another strength that Besseth's children had, unless focused directly upon them, they were amazingly resistant to the trappings of the Light. Declan placed the book alone on a shelf, leaving it in solitude far from the others. "Those, however, are what you're looking for…" He motioned towards a shelf, and Kel'thuzad moved up. No more than a dozen of them, all but one bound in dark, blood clot colored leather, the last bound in midnight blue silk.

He gestured, and the leftmost one drifted out, aligned itself at the perfect reading position, and opened itself. The writing on the first page was awkward, painstaking, the words of a quick mind held back by a limited ability.

It wasn't until deep in the middle of the journals, volume eight, before the writing turned from the training and upbringing of bright, shiny little death knights and began to wonder just how she was creating them. Kel'thuzad grew pensive as the words continued; apparently Besseth had been as clueless about how she did it as those around her were. It all read as instinctual. How did one instinctively raise the dead? A fascinating question, Besseth had been lower than common, she'd been human refuse. Human refuse, that when tied to the power of the Lich King, standing at Arthas's side, had yanked the dead back, put them on their feet imbued with power and greatness. He was missing something. He could feel it.

The final journal fell open; its pages were crisp, moon white, the writing upon them graceful and adept. Besseth, torn from the aegis of the Lich King, left amongst the Order to find her own way. It was fascinating reading, the creation of a fine paladin, written in a language he grasped. And then, simply, on one of the pages, the answer. He breathed out an icy fall. Besseth had been born to be a paladin, her soul imbued with that.

"She didn't raise the dead." He marveled aloud, and the silent, watchful Declan shifted.

"Oh?"

"She raised the living." It had taken the training of a paladin to show her the way, but she had finally grasped it. "She resurrected you." The instinctive reaction of an untrained paladin.

"We aren't living." Declan noted, and Kel'thuzad studied him. That was correct. None of the nine had survived their resurrection at the hands of their mother. She had botched them all, untrained and relying on a power source that could not give them life again. She had drawn from the Frozen Throne, not the Light, and they had died for it.

"Her power source was flawed for a true resurrection. She did better." Kel'thuzad glanced back at the Tome of Divinity. "That, using the Lich King's power, was what Besseth did. She was already tied to the Majesty then." Kel'thuzad growled. Surely Besseth had to have known what had tied her to Arthas? That link, forged so early, had been the conduit she had drawn power through, but there was no mention of it in her journals.

"It wasn't strong enough to bring her back." Declan stated morosely, and Kel'thuzad pondered. No, but it had been strong enough to power Besseth's needs and wants…until she no longer needed or wanted. Until the Light and the Order gave her power to achieve those needs and wants… "Besseth could be very strong willed when she put her mind to it. The tie was strong enough to power each and every one of you, no reason to think it suddenly wasn't strong enough then." With his, and the master's unblinking attention turned on her. "I wonder just what it was, however. Your mother does not say. Does not say anything at all of those days. Her journals start later, well after she was absorbed into the followers."

He could feel Declan concentrate, pull up his Kirin Tor training, and view the question through the lens of that schooling. "She told us, Diarmid and me, once… that her bond to Arthas was through ashes and blood. Those are the only words that I bring up."

Ashes. Blood. There had been plenty of both in those days. Ashes. Blood. What? Whose? He stilled his focus; perhaps Declan had enough in that enigmatic statement.

Terenas's ashes and Uther's blood. Besseth had been anointed in Terenas's ashes and Uther's blood. By Arthas himself, before Kel'thuzad had been raised. "Well, hopefully Tabitha has her mother's gifts, Declan." He closed the journal and replaced it with the others. "Thank you for your patience."

The quel'dorei shrugged. "Do you think we have a chance?" He asked softly, and the lich hovered in place.

"I do." He finally said.

The lich left a chill after he departed, and Declan frowned. This was so much more than he had counted on. It had been so easy when Tabitha was tiny, just a bundle in his arms. So perfect. She was still perfect, just not so tiny, and now she had attracted attention such as Kel'thuzad's. And the more he tried to keep that away from her, the more intently it would find her. It was time to take lessons from Besseth, Hold the followers close, and the family closer.

He moved slowly upstairs, past Besseth's empty chambers, past his and paused at the next doorway. He pushed it open, gazing down at Tabitha as she slept. This was family. And he held them closer. "Sleep tight, little one." He wished, tucking the sheep more firmly under the blankets.

"What's wrong?" He was indeed getting sloppy and distracted if he had not noticed Bredit's presence.

"I feel..." The thing was, he wasn't certain what he felt. "Like I'm walking over ground I don't see. Thin ice. Before it was always so easy… Mother was in charge, we did as she pleased, and that was that."

The dwarf moved closer. "Now you're the elder, you're in charge, and you make the final decisions, beneath the Master, of course. You're Besseth, in her absence."

"I counted on Diarmid…" That was part of it.

"So had I. The others, no. Raien, maybe. It doesna matter, Declan. You and I and…" She looked like she had bitten into a withered apple, "Kel'thuzad can raise that child. Well. You and I learned from the best, and we'll do our mother justice in that."

"Thank you."

She smiled, standing and smoothing her skirts. "She's a precious one, Declan. The paladins would just ruin her."

"Probably."

She tilted her head sideways to look at him. "Definitely. And try to pin down why Diarmid is so conspicuously absent. That makes me much more nervous than Kel'thuzad being so conspicuously present…."

That made two of them. The lich had made it patently clear what he wanted…unlimited access to Besseth's library. Insight. Information. The power that came from knowledge, the same greed that had made Besseth's eyes shine with every new volume they'd brought to her. Forget new armor, which would clad her in the Master's outward glory, forget a weapon beyond the runed axe she'd carried, forget fancy apartments, great dreadchargers, or luxury. Besseth had lived for the same knowledge, she was closer to Kel'thuzad than he cared to consider. But then, they'd both come from before, even as early as he and his twin had come to the Master's service, Besseth and Kel'thuzad had come earlier. And the majority of those early days were a blur to him, a blur to Diarmid, but nothing in them blurred for Besseth. Her guarded comments regarding those days made that perfectly clear. She had a perfect recollection of the end of Lordaeron, the destruction of Quel'danas, how she had fallen in with the birthing of the Scourge.

"I know what he wants."

Bredit chuckled, moving beyond him and into the dimly lit hallway beyond. "Same thing I do, Declan. Same thing I do… to grasp what Besseth did to us. To understand what has always been a mystery to me."

"Oh?" He stepped behind her, gently pulling the door to Tabitha's rooms closed behind him. It was rare that Bredit would open up; she was the silent watcher of them.

"I watched her raise Ellorie, that day outside of Light's Hope…"

"Ellorie was always a fool." He noted slowly, "And that day was a shining example."

"In her defense, who would have known we were in the area?" Bredit questioned, and he shrugged in answer. Certainly, there was no reason to guess that they, the family, had been operating in the area beyond Light's Hope… but there was plenty of reason to guess that there were things out there that were too much for Ellorie to have handled. Besseth's intentions had been to scout and screen the Scarlet Enclaves, not mess with arrogant young paladins.

"Bah. She was a fool then, still tends to be a fool now."

"Says her older brother. You see her through the eyes of an elder sibling, with the added arrogance of a noble quel'dorei thrown in. As I was saying," she narrowed her eyes at him, "I saw her raise Ellorie. I've seen dozens of necromancers raise, I've seen Kel'thuzad himself raise, but what I saw that day was a resurrection. I used to be able to do it, Declan, I'd recognize it anywhere. As would Ellorie…Besseth was a great necromancer simply because she was a great paladin. To us, it was never a secret."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

She paused, fingertips on the doorway to her own rooms. "By then it was too late, Declan. Whatever had made her what she was had already occurred. I would never have hurt Besseth by pointing out that she was destined for the one thing that her service would not permit her to be."

"So, why help me to raise her?" If Bredit honestly believed, as the evidence was starting to show, that Besseth had died as she was truly meant to be, then raising her was a violation of that.

Bredit breathed a chuckle. "I was meant to be a priest, Declan. You were meant to be an archmage. But we are what we are, and I, for one, am not unhappy as I am. Besseth was too important to have achieved nothing, and if she goes like this, that's exactly what she's done. We, as a family, have a destiny, and we have not fulfilled it. Besseth first amongst us. That joke of a service as a paladin was nothing more than an interlude, as was your training with the Kirin Tor."

He shrugged; he'd go along with any plan that had her supporting him. If she wanted to believe that Besseth had some great, untried destiny, that was fine by him. "Good night, Bredit."

"Good night, Declan."

He woke, not surprised that he was not alone. He didn't need to open his eyes to identify the person in the room with him. "Diarmid."

"You wanted to speak to me."

"You've been avoiding me." Declan accused, sliding from bed and dressing quickly. His twin was in full war gear, and he felt lax and lazy when confronted by that. Diarmid tilted his head slightly to bring him into sight, and then shrugged.

"Declan. My twin." He sighed, shaking his head. "We were born together. Raised together. Died together. Were reborn together."

Declan glared at the statements. All of that made Diarmid's sudden distance worse, not better. He didn't know how to be alone… And he really didn't like the faint smile on Diarmid's expression. "Dec." His twin breathed gently, "There are certain things we must do alone, and you are on that path."

"I don't understand."

Diarmid chuckled. "Only one of us can stand as Tabitha's father. You assumed that responsibility immediately. And, you fall for Besseth alone, Declan. When she returns to us, I will not get in the way of that, and I will throw back any who will. I love Besseth as my mother; you have always adored her beyond that…"

"She's married."

"Bah." Honest amusement crossed Diarmid's expression. "Tibault? You are worried about that? When this is over, if it works, Besseth will be one of us again. He will turn from her, or she will turn from him, or both. He is weak. He has not stood since she fell, he allows a child to raise his only blood. Anselm is more of a man than Tibault has managed since Besseth's death. Half of Tibault wants her to raise, half of him dreads the idea, and all of it eats him up. Until death do them part, Declan… and she's most certainly dead now. Take the gift that the man has given her, you, and run with it." Diarmid rested his weight against his runesword, and Declan frowned. Diarmid had been in war gear for awhile, he could feel it. This was not an attempt to make Declan feel less, it was just how he was at this moment. He was tired; the slightest droop of his ears and the slouch to his stance gave it away.

"Diar?"

"The Argent Crusade has regrouped, and renewed their assault on the Citadel." Diarmid finally admitted, and Declan spat out a curse. The last assault had brought them to the bottom of the steps, into the main courtyard. Had allowed them to desecrate the Cathedral of Darkness and remove Besseth's remains. And they were at it again?

"I've heard nothing…" In fact, it had been remarkably silent, except for Kel'thuzad.

"You and Bredit are busy on a task that the Master believes has merit. Therefore, you are not called away. We take our places on the line, however."

So that was why so many of them were absent. A renewed assault would bring his siblings back to Icecrown immediately, to stand for the Master in full force. "Declan. This is one time I cannot stand behind you, the one time when two is one too many. Raise the child. Raise Besseth, and hold her close, as you've always wanted to do. You mean the world to me, and the best way I can show you that right now is to stand back and let you do what you need to do. And I will do what I need to…"

"It's that bad?"

His twin's hand caressed the cyan engraved length of his blade, his gaze turned inward. "Yes, Declan." He finally admitted. "It's that bad. And no, your presence will not turn the tide, so don't even think it."

"If you need me…" It was a futile statement; obviously the seven of them had come to a decision without him, without Bredit. They would stand at Icecrown, as befitted what they were, and he was not invited. The Master did not wish him there, or he would have been called. And now, his siblings did not want him there either.

"We will not call, Declan. We agree on this." Diarmid's grip was heavy when he rested his gauntleted hand on Declan's shoulder. "We will do what we must, my brother. And you will do the same."

Anselm Tiegan regarded Icecrown with the honed resignation of a veteran, this was hardly the first time he'd been here, and his service brought him here again. This push was good, however, unlike the last, when they'd been held off, turned away. It was the mark of a new recruit to put victory in sight before it was a given, but hope had begun to stir in his heart. This was the first time he'd set foot within the Citadel, his way was unhindered as he climbed the steps and moved into the hall. Darion was pushing forward beyond him, aided by his knowledge of the internal layout of the Citadel. The room was dark, shadowed, cavernous, and not empty.

"Anselm Tiegan." One of the shadows elongated, and a man stepped from its shelter. No human male, he towered over Anselm's respectable height by a good two, three hands, and his ossified black armor did not disguise his reed thin build. No, this was quel'dorei, great long ears sloping behind him, a fall of dawn tinged hair braided behind him. "My brother."

Anselm's heart plummeted. It finally came, the day he faced another of Besseth's offspring, on the battlefield.

"Where is Tabitha?" He growled. The very thought that she'd been brought here, to this hellhole, and was even now in danger from the push sickened him.

"Tabitha is ours." The elf returned evenly, extending the glowing length of a runeblade before him. "One child for each of Besseth's families. Fair, Anselm."

"It's not fair that she's not raised with her twin…if you are who I think you are, then you of all people should know that!"

The death knight pondered the words, his glowing blue eyes still locked on Anselm. "It's not right that she's not raised with her twin." He finally admitted, "But it is fair. There's a difference between fair and right, I'm surprised that Besseth did not teach you that. But then," he smiled faintly, "Besseth did not teach you much."

Anselm could hear the fall of returning footsteps coming back down the hall, and Darion stepped into the pale light of the room beyond the death knight. "Diarmid." He sighed, and the elf half pivoted to bring him into sight.

"Traitor."

"So Besseth's children rise in defense of Icecrown?"

"Of course we do. We do not forget our duty, unlike some. My mother judged you unworthy, Darion Mograine, and she was correct."

Mograine sighed in obvious exasperation, although his face was hidden by his cowl. "Diarmid. Your mother is dead, killed by your own master's forces. Who was betrayed? He had her cut down, outnumbered, still fresh from a hard birth."

"Death was always supposed to have been Besseth's gift from him. Death is the crucible we all must face, Darion. You faced it. I faced it. We were made better and stronger for it. Besseth had fought against for so long that she could no longer see when it was time to let go of the fight and put her faith in the master. We were patient with her. Finally, we just had to push."

"Death was no crucible for Besseth, Diarmid. It was her end."

The elf chuckled, shaking his head. "Darion Mograine, the self styled Dark Watcher. A new prophet… tell me, oh, one with the sight, is Besseth ended?"

There was silence, and Anselm dared to drag his eyes from the death knight to glance at Darion. That one was still, silent. "Besseth sleeps in tranquil silence." Darion finally hissed, and the death knight grinned maliciously. "But the forces to awaken her fall into place." Mograine finished, and the elf showed a feral array of teeth at odds with his beauty. "Besseth is not gone…"

"No. Besseth is not gone, traitor. Not at all. She has entered the crucible of death, and will emerge better for it."

No. Anselm swallowed down nausea. He'd lost Besseth, lost Tabitha, and now… this. The only balm had been that Besseth would not, did not, rise. A risen Besseth would destroy so much that he held sacred. Those eyes, so blue, fell on him and the elf raised a hand to motion at him. "Well, what are you waiting for, child? You knew this day would come…" There was triumph in his voice and Anselm hissed. There was no way to win. Either he lost, and died, or he killed one of those tied to Besseth. "You didn't think this was going to be easy, did you? Oh, of course you did. Easy, right, one simple answer. She really didn't teach you, did she? He's a fool, Darion. Hardly worthy to be considered one of hers… He's not finished yet. If he was one of us, she would have never let him out of Icecrown this young."

"Besseth died before she was done with him."

"True. Maybe she'll complete the work when Tabitha raises her."

Anselm's heart stopped at those words. No. Absolutely not. Surely…not? His stare fell on Darion, who bowed his head at the words. "That's a crime, Diarmid." Darion muttered angrily, but Anselm could sense that the anger was from a rising comprehension. "Tabitha is Besseth, all over again. A born paladin. A judge of the worthy. Gifted. Deny that, and you will tear her apart… Besseth could never rise beyond the fact that the Lich King owned her. Tabitha still has a chance."

"Besseth will not turn away from the call of one of her children, one of her blooded children. Tabitha has the ability to put forth that call, on the same level that her mother did. I have heard that call, Darion. You only dreamed of it."

"Diarmid. Leave this place. Icecrown will fall, and the Lich King with it. There is always a place for you, your siblings, in the Ebon Blade."

The death knight raised a cynical brow. "Under you? You'd like that entirely too much, Darion. Do you really believe you are worthy to lead us? My mother has said no on more than one occasion. She has stood before the Lich King himself, told the master you were weak, and would fall, and on every occasion you called her wrong. But here you are, traitor. And she was right!"

Darion chuckled. "Besseth is always right, Diarmid. And your point is correct; she should have been listened to. The fact that she wasn't was the lack of the Lich King to place adequate trust in her advice, to elevate her to the status she should have had within his court. Why he failed to do so, I have never understood. But, Diarmid…leave this place. You and your siblings are too valuable to fall here. If you are correct, then your death here, at Anselm's hands, will be something that Besseth will have to put behind her. She will be needed later, and all of you will be needed later. Pull back to Declan, in Besseth's hold, and wait this out…"

It was obvious that the quel'dorei was not convinced, but the sounds of another unit arriving on the apron of steps outside was more convincing than Mograine and Anselm combined. He spun, gave Mograine a wide berth, and vanished into the darkness of Icecrown's labyrinth of corridors.

"Ouch." Anselm sighed, shaking his head. Darion merely shrugged.

"They are all glorious, Anselm. Pair that one with his twin brother and it is quite impressive. Thankfully the whole lot of them is imbued with a good dose of common sense and self preservation…"

There was a corpse on the inner steps of the Citadel, and the seemingly frail form of a geist whined and snarled over it. The tail end of his noose rested in the lax grip of the massive Amani troll standing behind him, but that one's attentions were locked miles away.

"Ish dead." The geist mumbled through its mask, and the troll nodded slowly.

"Yah. She's dead." The troll agreed, immune to the geist's rising distress.

The geist turned its head, staring back into the depths of the hallway beyond. There was chaos, so far removed from this oddly peaceful place. It whined again, nervously, vibrating against the hold its master had on its noose leash. It didn't like this, not one bit. This was not supposed to be how this went. This was beginning to smell of failure, rout, death… destruction, and while the geist loved all of those, it didn't like them falling upon those he served. And, up until very recently, that bloody puddle in front of him had been one of his wife's legacy. Those she had created, those it served.

"We stand to protect the master." Khraben, third child of Besseth growled, pulling the noose taut and turning away from the still form before him. "Ellorie did her duty." He released the noose, its tail end falling to the floor. "John."

The geist tilted its head quizzically in response.

"Go kill."


	3. Chapter 3

The day was a still one, waiting with a bated breath, and Declan shuddered. Everything in his heart and soul told him disaster lurked, but there wasn't enough concrete to move on. He wasn't the only one who felt it, Bredit had been staring in Icecrown's direction all afternoon, a quiet Tabitha riding on her hip. "Why aren't we being called?" She finally asked, and Declan shrugged his own doubt.

"I don't know." He admitted, moving into his arming room and pulling his gambeson on over the fine shirt he wore. His harness followed, his horsetail crested helm riding under his elbow as he returned to her side. "I feel it." He breathed, and she nodded, holding Tabitha close. The small one was so very silent, her eyes level and calm when she gazed at Declan.

Pain ripped through him, and he staggered. Dead. One of them was gone… one of those he had always taken comfort in was no more. It was not Diarmid, that loss would have done more than stagger him, but one of his siblings had fallen.

"Ellorie…." Bredit gasped, and the blood drained from his face. Yes, that was Ellorie's passing. And she would have only stood on the Citadel grounds….

"They've breached the Citadel…" He hissed, slamming his helm on his head and summoning his runeblade. He spun, outstretched his hand to open a death gate into Icecrown, and nothing happened.

Bredit only arched a brow, shrugged, and went back to staring towards the Citadel. "Nice try." She muttered, smoothing Tabitha's thick fall of reddish blonde hair. "We're not to go back."

He growled, stalking to pace to the terrace she stood at. "If Ellorie has fallen, the Citadel, the Master…."

"If Ellorie has fallen, if the Citadel is breached, if the Master is in danger, then we will be little aid, Declan. Our given task is to raise Tabitha…"

"If the Master falls, what use is she then?" What was the point of raising the Master's great trainer if there was no longer a Master?

"I want Besseth returned to me. I want Besseth returned to you, and her bairn. We can figure out the rest from there."

"Bredit, we may be falling…"

Her answering look was spiteful, and he glared back. "You took responsibility for this bairn, Declan." She hissed. "You asked me to, as well. I did, and the Master blessed that. Our duty is clear and…." She glanced pointedly at where the death gate had failed, "We're being held to it. We should, however, expect the possibility of our siblings falling back here if they can."

Falling. It was an idea that John had never pondered in the years since they'd come for him. Declan. Diarmid. Khraben. Filled with rage and a thirst for vengeance, they had dragged him screaming to Northrend and hung him from his neck until dead, from the ramparts of the Citadel he now clung to. That wasn't their vengeance, that came later, when they snatched him back from death and made him theirs. He would pay for his sins, by serving Besseth, a woman who had then made it quite clear that she did not desire him to serve her. In fact, she'd made it quite clear that if she never placed eyes upon him again, in any form, she would be happy for it. She hated him, deeply in her soul. But that was fine, he rarely had to deal with her, and those marvelous children she had raised had given him so much. They were fools for loving her, few were less worthy than she was, but that was the only point they were foolish upon. They'd given him abilities he had never dreamed of, a place to belong, and his own twisted worth. He'd do anything for them, but watching them fall tore at him. He was losing his family. His masters. Everything he had.

He whined, craning his neck to stare at Khraben. This was a loss. Doomed to fail. Surely if he could see that, then the master could? Or did he see it, and would stand anyway? They were brave…were they foolish brave? They could just retreat…. John knew that Besseth had more than one fall back point arranged in case of the unthinkable. Somehow, she'd become canny smart, he just wasn't certain when, or how, that had happened. Maybe she had always been, but had never shown him that. It was hard to remember the time before, she probably remembered it better, but she wasn't about to discuss it with him. He was not welcomed to her side. Well, the unthinkable was becoming the obvious today…. Icecrown was falling. The King was falling. And he was locked in a form he could not shed to hide amongst the refugees as he had before. His whining rose, and the troll absently patted his head.

"'Nuff o'dat." Khraben breathed. "We be servants of de King. Champions. No whinin'. We be terror." He nodded, and the geist at his heels sobbed…already knowing his answer. Khraben would not fall back. He would stand here. He would fall here.

Raien appeared on the terrace of Besseth's hold high in the Fjords. He rolled to a stop, and rested on the icy paving stones…breathing hard. His blood froze beneath him, but it was blessedly silent and peaceful here.

"Raien?" Bredit's voice was a comfort. Besseth's would have been more of a comfort, but that was an impossibility right now. He pulled off his helmet, turned his head, looking up at Bredit. She had the child with her, clinging to her skirts, a miniature version of Besseth.

"Bred. Help me up." He sighed, and she bent over to extend a hand. "Thanks." He breathed, carefully coming to his feet. Nothing seemed beyond healing, so he grimaced at her as he pressed on the worst bleeder with the heel of his hand.

"It goes poorly." Bredit noted the obvious, and he extended the grin to a painful rictus.

"Icecrown falls." He said the unthinkable and she nodded slowly. "Who else has returned?"

Her expression stilled, and his heart stilled with it. "So far, you are the only one to return to us, Raien. Ellorie has fallen, that we are certain of. Probably Khraben as well. Right now, you and Diarmid are the only two we're certain are still standing… you, because you are obviously here, and Diarmid because Declan is obviously still standing." She smoothed the little girl's hair. "Come in. We'll get you patched back together."

He nodded, following behind. He'd never been within the home granted to Besseth for her service, she'd rarely been here herself, so he'd had no reason to be here. She had raised them in the depths of Icecrown, to serve Icecrown. The same Icecrown that he had just fled…

"How is Declan taking it?" If Declan was here, and Diarmid standing at Icecrown, then it was a miracle that this keep still stood.

"Badly. But we're locked out from the Citadel. The only route we seem to be able to raise a Death Gate to appears to be Acherus, of all places…."

"Mograine has always maintained that he offered us sanctuary. Besseth as well." And, as badly as things were going, that might just be an offer they would have to take a look at, as painful as that was.

"He's unworthy." Bredit automatically responded, and he chuckled. Only a child of Besseth would say that about the man who had carried Ashbringer, led the forces of the Master from Acherus, defected, and still existed in spite of it.

"Yes, Besseth." He said, and she glared back at him. "He's an option. And we've been taught to look at all of those we happen to have. And we have precious few of those still open to us now. Besseth may just have to swallow her pride and deal with him."

"Besseth…swallow her pride?" Bredit laughed, a true, deep, gut laugh, wrapping an arm around the little girl and leading the way into the keep. "There's something I'd pay to see, Raien. Truly."

It was over. Anselm dragged his helm from his head and stared around in stunned silence. Icecrown had fallen. The Lich King was dead. They'd actually done it. After so many losses, so many failures, so many times when holding the line had been all they could hope for, it was done.

He dropped to a knee, his sweat lank auburn hair falling across his brow. "Bless the Light." He sighed, raising his gaze to the single ray of pale sunlight swathing from the ceiling. The skylight had been shattered; he could see scuttling, boiling clouds seething above him.

"How bad is it?" He asked the shadow standing behind him. He could feel it; he had expected to feel empty now, always had after gaining an immense goal. He felt a nebulous pain on top of that drained silence in his soul. He had lost siblings this day, siblings he had never really known, but whose souls had been tied to his.

"Ellorie. Khraben. Alaroc. Dannel. Eonar. Confirmed dead. We've captured Diarmid. Raien escaped through a death gate; to some fall back point we haven't located yet. Declan and Bredit were not here." Mograine sighed in unadulterated disgust. "So, five dead. We lost more than half… they are irreplaceable, Anselm. I don't expect you to comprehend it."

"They were raised to follow the Lich King. They stood for that." In its own way, it was a valiant death. They had died for what they had believed in. What his mother had taught them to.

"It's a waste. They are few, amazing, and the chances that Besseth will raise any more of them…" he shook his head. "She may indeed raise. But even if she does, could she, would she, make more? Or would she make more like you? Don't take that wrong, Anselm, you're a superlative paladin…"

"And a terrible death knight. Tabitha isn't here, is she?"

Darion paused, thoughtfully. "Declan wouldn't try to raise her here, Anselm. Too many things he wouldn't have control of. No, if I had to guess, he took her to Besseth's keep."

"Keep?" That was news to Anselm. No mention of it had ever been made before, not by Darion or Besseth.

"One of the Lich King's attempts to shower Besseth with marks of his favor. Most of them failed, and this one was little different. He thought that since she worked alone, maybe she needed a remote place to raise her little ones. I knew she had one, but I'm not certain where it is. Besseth never trusted me enough to divulge its location. Diarmid will know, but prying it from him will be next to impossible… I'm willing to believe they've hidden Besseth and Tabitha there. And it's the fall back point, so his twin is there. All of his persisting siblings are there."

"I just want Tabitha back." He had been entrusted with her. He loved her. Her brother cried himself to sleep without her. "Mograine. Do you want Besseth returned? As she would be, undead?"

"Besseth deserved more than she got."

Anselm waited for more, but Mograine seemed unwilling to give it. "Is that a yes, or a no?" He finally asked, and he could feel Darion's gaze rest on him.

"That's a yes, Anselm. I want Besseth returned. I think it's in all of our best interests to see it happen. She was a gift, underutilized, but still a gift. The Ebon Blade stands ready to accept her and hers the moment they bend."

"And Tabitha?" Anselm gripped his sword. Surely the man didn't mean what it sounded like he did?

"I'm not going to dispute Declan's claim on that child, Anselm. The moment I'm not completely open in my offer of sanctuary to Besseth's family, any chance we have of convincing them to come in is gone. They'll judge that running with her is the best course of action, and we lose then. I don't want to lose sight of where they have her, and I don't want them trying to raise an independent force to keep her away from us. And lastly, if they successfully raise Besseth, then I will most certainly not stand in her way to have her daughter…no matter how living or dead she happens to be afterwards."

"Besseth should not be raised, Darion. It is an abomination to even consider it."

"She spent over a decade promising us that she would become one of us, Anselm." Darion moved to the window, staring out over the courtyard below. "I'm certain I'm not the only one who intends to hold her to that promise. Some people have roles to play, Anselm. Yours is to be here, to help drag the Lich King down, to raise Rion Kellemen as the man that Besseth Kellemen would have wanted him to be. You have that right from your relationship to her, and the love and respect you have for her. Likewise, Declan takes the opposite stance. He will raise Tabitha as the woman that Besseth Southcross would have wanted her to be. He has that right from his relationship to her, and the love and respect he has for her. I cannot hold one of your suits above the other, Anselm. They are equal. They are balanced."

"You're insane."

"Perhaps, Anselm, perhaps. But you will not move me on this one. Save your breath."


	4. Chapter 4

Over. Fallen. Defeated. They were words, concepts, that Declan was all too familiar with, and he chafed beneath them. He'd seen Quel'danas fall, his lands, his people, and his blood die. Only Diarmid had persisted out of that, but Besseth had given him lands, people and family to replace them. She'd handed Diarmid back to him, unaging, immortal, to stand beside him forever, or so it had seemed then. Besseth had been the only mortality in his existence, or so it had seemed. Now she was gone. The Master had fallen. Northrend was crumbling as more and more swarmed into the devastation. Diarmid had been taken, and the last time he'd seen anyone taken, it had ended badly. So many of his siblings had fallen, and he was left trying to pick up pieces that didn't want to pick up, so far from the action.

"I need you." He muttered angrily, touching the still hand before him. What if they were wrong? What if Besseth could not, would not, raise? What if the power and knowledge necessary to accomplish this task had fallen with the Citadel? There was no sign of Kel'thuzad, Declan could only assume he'd been destroyed in the fall. "Besseth…"

She remained still, about as he'd been expecting. His need wouldn't raise the dead, especially the dead who remained that way after having the focus of Kel'thuzad and the Lich King focused upon them. No, it had to be Tabitha, only she had the slightest chance. But what chance was that, without Kel'thuzad to groom her? Every necromancer he'd been counting on to help was gone, destroyed standing for their Master. Those that might have escaped were fleeing, hiding, exactly as they were currently doing. Besseth's hold was a well held secret, only Diarmid could threaten its safety….for now. But eventually they'd come looking, and eventually, turning the wilds of Northrend upside down, they'd find it. They had resources now superior to those that could hide the Hold. The might of the Kirin Tor… he frowned and ran long fingertips down Besseth's rope of dark blonde hair. If….when…they started looking for her, he was no match to keep her hidden.

"What has you pondering?" Bredit asked, and he glanced over at her. She was staring out the window, still looking towards Icecrown. He understood why, it was almost impossible to grasp that it had fallen. "And do you feel him?"

"I worry about the Kirin Tor. When they start looking for us, at the behest of the Order or the Ebon Blade, they will find us. How are we supposed to hide from the likes of Jaina Proudmoore?" He'd met her, he'd studied beside her, and she'd been fine enough to gain the attentions of Kael'thas. She had outmatched both Declan and Diarmid well back then, and then his magical studies had been cut short…when he'd lost his life. "And yes, I feel him."

"A new Lich King. Yet I feel no real pull to serve him." She considered, and he nodded at the words. The only pull he felt now was to Besseth. Tabitha. Diarmid, Bredit and Raien. He felt no pull to serve this newcomer, this interloper. He couldn't even put a name to it. All he was certain of was the list of people it was not. It was not Darion, and that was a blessing. Not Kel'thuzad. None that might be fitting. Those had been torn away; the Helm had been taken up by no one he felt ready to serve. Even that door had closed before him.

"The lucky ones have passed from us." She breathed, turning to gaze at Besseth's still form. "With a blade in their hands and righteousness in their hearts."

"Reconsidering?"

She chuckled darkly, pulling the heavy curtains closed against the falling twilight. "No, Declan. They'll have to come get me if they want me. And they'll pay for it… if I go, I go with that blade in my hand, and that steel in my heart…my brother."

"Well stated, my sister."

"Good morning, Diarmid."

Well, no surprise there. Diarmid had been biding his time, waiting for this one to show up. He was heartened to see that Darion came with backup, the best he could find… Anselm might be unfinished, in need of more of his mother's training, but he was still one of Besseth's chosen. He'd known the brilliance of her focus, the grasp of her insight. He was worthy, and few here could claim that accolade. "Mograine. And Tiegan. To what do I owe this?" He already knew. They wanted Declan and Bredit. Tabitha. All things he wasn't willing to give up.

"Icecrown has fallen." Darion stated, and Diarmid raised a brow at him. He loved stating the obvious; it made him seem so…brilliant. So insightful. So much the prophet.

"I noticed." He leaned back in his chair, studying Anselm. He'd seen plenty of Darion, but his sibling was the unknown quantity. Darion would posture. Look ominous. Threaten without coming out and actually saying the words. Diarmid understood him. Anselm, no. "I was there, after all."

"The Lich King is dead."

Well, one of them was. Diarmid could feel the ascension of whoever had taken up the Helm, but it was a faraway comprehension, like one of his siblings talking in a room down from his. A matter of note, not a compulsion to follow, muted into a slight jangle in his head. "Arthas is, yes." He finally threw Darion a couple of feet of rope, just to see where he was going with this. "But the Lich King persists. Whoever has the Helm has the Throne."

"So you feel him." Darion wondered, and Diarmid chuckled, his gaze still locked on Anselm.

"Of course I feel him, Mograine. He is not the Master, but I feel him."

"Do you hear his call?"

That was a call? Diarmid didn't bother to hold back his dubious look in answer. "I hear something, Darion. Whether or not it is a call, I cannot say. But…. Why are you here?" It would be best just to get it all started. The sooner it began, the sooner it would end.

"I think you know why we're here, Diarmid."

Diarmid shrugged. He could think of more than one reason why Darion would be here. None of them were reasons he'd want to talk to him, but he had few choices. And, like it or not, Darion was one of those forces that they would now have to deal with. Darion, or that unidentified and nebulous new Lich King that did not fill Diarmid's heart with steel and loyalty. Neither felt like a fine idea, but if there was another one, he missed it. How had they failed? How had they fallen? "What do you want, Darion?" He sighed, finally dropping his gaze from the silent Anselm and deigning to look at Darion.

"It's not what I want, Diarmid. It's what I offer. We both know what I want. The same I've wanted since we rode against Lights Hope, to place Besseth and hers in the Ebon Blade, where you belong. I know Declan has Tabitha Kellemen…"

That brought Diarmid's stare back to the young paladin, who fumed silently at the words but did not interrupt.

"…in Besseth's hold. Wherever that is. And that he has Besseth herself there, operating under the hope that Tabitha will be able to raise her."

"Even if she cannot be raised, she should not be buried within Stormwind. That was an insult, Darion, one we could not ignore."

Darion chuckled, darkly, and Diarmid raised a brow. Maybe the man wasn't so far gone after all… "I happen to agree, Diarmid. The Order's handling of Besseth was awkward and ill conceived; for all that it was done with only the best of intentions. Rescuing one of the Master's favored and valued servants by turning her into a paladin showed an intrinsic lack of understanding of the situation they were dealing with. It got her killed, and confused her loyalties. I've never tried to make Besseth anything she wasn't, Diarmid. My hope was merely that she would be what she was meant to be with the Ebon Blade instead of the Order. I do not hide the fact that I want Besseth, and her children, within the Ebon Blade. So you have Tabitha." He shrugged mildly. "I don't care. Actually, that's not true. I do care. I just don't believe that the lot of you are any less worthy to raise her in Besseth's stead just because you happen to be undead. You're undead because the child's mother made you so. You are her family as much as any of the paladins within the Order…more; she was your mother, Declan's mother, for years. One of her children was born with darkness within its heart. That will always put her out of the grasp of the Order's comprehension. They will try to change her, Diarmid, while Declan will cherish her. Bredit will also. I will, and help you raise her to be what she is meant to be. And I will stand for my people, Diarmid. You have as much right to raise one of Besseth's offspring as the Order does."

More. Diarmid thought, but didn't say it. It was enough to hear what he was hearing. Unworthy, probably, useful, definitely. As Besseth had said, "Use all the tools at your disposal." Well, it seemed like Darion might just be one of the tools at their disposal. And that was fine by Diarmid. He would do whatever it took to see this done, worthy or unworthy. "So far, so good." He agreed, ignoring Anselm's obviously rising distress.

"Icecrown has fallen." Darion continued, and Diarmid didn't fight the glower that crossed his face. A regrettable failure. But he'd persisted through worse, and emerged better for it. "Very, very few places for death knights, especially on the level that Besseth created them, to hide now, Diarmid."

Again, Darion stated the obvious. Of them all, only Raien could truly tamp down the aura that surrounded him, the only one who could pass as less than one of the family. Before, that palpable air about them had been their hallmark, their heraldry, the stamp of their mother's work and the Master's regard. Now it was an identifier that could get them all destroyed. They weren't meant to hide…they were meant to terrify. "I realize that, Mograine."

"I offer the surviving children of Besseth sanctuary in Acherus."

There it was. The offer. Diarmid leaned back, steepling his fingers in his lap and contemplated it. "Besseth….and Tabitha?" He asked finally. Declan would not give them up, and Diarmid was ill given to consider any actions that would cause so much friction in what remained of the family.

"Declan. Bredit. Raien. You. Tabitha, and indeed, Besseth…in whatever level of consciousness she happens to enjoy at any given time. Even John; for he is a part of this I don't quite understand."

Diarmid felt the rise of his own brow, and the slight sneer over an incisor. Yes, John was still a part of this, and it was fine and good that Darion didn't completely understand all the workings here. Family business was family business, and they weren't nearly through with that one.

"You don't actually believe the Order will allow this, Darion?" Anselm asked numbly, and Diarmid chuckled. Poor child, still laboring under the misconception that life could be fair.

"I don't intend to ask their permission, Anselm. Their mistakes with Besseth are all the grounds I need for that. The best you're going to get from me, and probably from them, is the promise that they will leave Rion Kellemen alone… Isn't that right, Diarmid?"

"Have no interest in the boy." Diarmid granted. He'd taken a look at both of the children when he realized that they were the reason for Declan's absences from Icecrown. The girl was more than he could have hoped for, glowing with her own flowing aura, darkened by those threads in her mother that the Light had not shone away. The boy breathed greatness, certainly. He would be a force to be reckoned with, a pinnacle of all that his mother had achieved in her short life away from Icecrown. Her legacy to the Order, and Diarmid did not begrudge them that. Obviously Declan did not either, which clenched it. Tibault, Anselm and the Order could keep the boy, unmolested. The girl was another question altogether. "He is Besseth Kellemen's son. The Order, Anselm, Tibault…we do not contest their rights to him. Raise him as he should be, a child of Stormwind, a child of the Order, the legacy of a great paladin cut down. He was born shining with the Light, and we do not intend to try to take that from him. But Tabitha was not born shining in the Light. She was born in the shadows. She is a Southcross, marked by her mother's darkness. That can no more be purged from her…" His eyes fell on Anselm, "…than the Light in her brother could be truly broken. Believe me or do not, we desire what is best for both of them."

"I believe you, Diarmid." Darion breathed, and Diarmid considered him. He did not lie. Darion was not above using this for his own ends, and the betterment of the Ebon Blade, but he believed.

"I would need to discuss your offer with my brother, Darion. Bredit. Raien." He didn't think they would reject it, but he still couldn't speak for all of them. Only Besseth had that right, and she was currently incommunicado.

"Of course." Darion produced a ring of dark keys, jingling them in his hand as he warily approached Declan. But Diarmid understood the etiquette of this, just as his mother had been, he had been a polite captive. Once captured, the game changed. He remained tranquil and still as Darion unlocked his bonds, and stood slowly when Darion backed away. "We will send word to Acherus when we come to a decision, Darion. Either way, we will grant you that courtesy." He bowed graciously, then spun away from the pair, cast the Gate to return home and was gone.

Declan jerked his head up, his gaze pointed unerringly towards the circle in the heart of the Keep. "Diarmid." He identified when Bredit turned in the same direction, runeblade in hand. "Released."

"That tears it." She muttered, "Darion has made the offer. We don't need to wait for Diarmid to tell us, we know already. Do we take it?"

Did they take it? Capitulate? Accept Darion's sanctuary, turn from what they had been raised to be? "We were not raised to be fools, Bredit." He growled, dropping his eyes to the sleeping Tabitha curled up on the couch near the fireplace. "The only way to win is to persist. To survive. To…" He shrugged. He didn't need to quote the lesson any further, Bredit had gotten it from the source the same as he had. If Besseth had taught them that, she must expect them to behave as that. They were no longer held by orders or any oaths but to themselves. The Master was gone. They were all that mattered now. Bredit made a vaguely agreeable noise and he nodded. "Get Tabitha's bag ready. Diarmid and I will ready Besseth. Raien will bring John."

"So you know the offer already?" Diarmid asked from the doorway behind them, the shadows loathe to release him as he moved into the room.

"We're assuming Darion has offered us sanctuary in Acherus. All of us who remain."

Declan sighed, nodded. "Then you do. Let's go get Besseth."

They made an odd little family as they gathered again. Declan had Besseth cradled in his arms, as if she were merely asleep. Tabitha really was asleep, her forehead awkwardly balanced on Bredit's shoulder as the dwarf tried to keep the child's feet from dragging the ground. Besseth and Tibault's child hinted at height, and was already close to Bredit's adult height. It would be more graceful to give her to Diarmid, but Declan wanted his twin unburdened in case of trouble. Raien was quietly fine with his role of literal leash holder on a none too pleased John, and person responsible to move many of the bags. "Grrrh." The geist mumbled, and Declan chuckled. He still wasn't getting out of this, even if his usual master had fallen. They still stood. He still served. That was it.


	5. Chapter 5

Darion waited just beyond the Gate, his stance warily. He relaxed slightly when he caught full sight of them, and Declan knew that he understood they would not have brought Besseth or Tabitha with them if they meant to spawn trouble in Acherus. "Welcome." He greeted, moving forwards. His blue gaze fell on Besseth, and his gaze turned regretful. He left a glancing touch on the braid of tea blonde hair falling over Declan's arm before turning his attention to Tabitha. He leaned down, his eyes intent as he studied her.

"She is just as I thought she would be." He stated, some of the regret fading from his face. "Much of Besseth. Little of Tibault… and the boy?"

"Much of Tibault. Little of Besseth." Declan confirmed, and Darion nodded, unsurprised.

"Fate is odd that way." He sighed, shaking his head. "But you are finally here. Your rooms are this way."

"Mograine has Tabitha." Anselm growled, raking fingers through his forelock. "Highlord, this is a crime… He's given sanctuary to them, to Declan and Diarmid, and…" He paused. He didn't even know any of the others' names.

"Good." Tirion breathed, and Anselm's responding look was pure betrayal. "Anselm, Northrend is not the place we want her to be. Even with a new lich king, it's very unstable. It will take time to calm, and Tabitha is very small. Very fragile. Declan and Diarmid, the others, will do their best to keep her whole but war is hell. And war is the worst on the small. I am pleased to hear her current caretakers are willing to swallow their pride to better care for her. I was afraid they would not be. It is a very good sign, Anselm."

"You don't believe they should have her? Her parents gave her to me!"

Tirion sighed, staring out of the window next to him. "Correction, Anselm. Tibault gave his permission for you, with the Order's oversight, to care for the children. He then later agreed for your parents to care for them in your absence. Besseth did not ever give her blessing or condemnation… so no; her parents did not give her to you." He dropped his forehead into his hand. "Maybe they are better equipped to care for her, Anselm. If they are right, if she is so like her mother…"

"Besseth was a paladin."

"I'm beginning to realize that Besseth could have been a great paladin. I think we came too late into her life. We failed her. And I think sometimes this is our penitence for that failure. But Darion is right, Declan has a claim, he has grounds."

"Tibault would not agree to that."

"Then Tibault can go to Acherus and try to get her back himself. He can confront Mograine, who I believe is honestly doing what he thinks is best. I will, of course, lodge a complaint with the Crown. And with Mograine. And do my best to see if we can't have some oversight with that. You want to hold on to Tabitha?"

"Of course."

"Then you need to deal with Declan. I'm sorry, Anselm."

Deal with Declan. Anselm left Tirion's offices, his head held low. This shouldn't be this difficult. Raising the children should not have become a political war between the Order and the Ebon Blade. They were allies. They had stood together against the Lich King and the Scourge. "Damn it all." He hissed, turning towards home. It was time to ask his mother. She possibly had greater insights into Tabitha than he had apparently been gifted with. Everyone else spoke of a dark thread through the child, and he saw none of it.

He rode alone, silent, making the yard at dusk. He found Aislinn upstairs, tucking Rion into bed. The boy smiled at him, sleepily, and he smiled back, feeling his mother's stare. She said nothing, however, only followed him back down. "Mother." He finally broke the silence, sitting forlornly at the table. "Tell me of Tabitha."

She frowned, took the chair across from him and studied him through worried and wary eyes. "You know the child, Anselm."

"Do I? It's like I'm blinded to what everyone else seems to see, Mother. You speak of her darkness. Tirion allows that she is dark. Mograine flaunts her darkness. And the undead children of her mother are drawn to her like moths. I look at her, I pick her up, and all I see…all I feel… is a beautiful little girl. My Tabby."

Aislinn sighed, stood, and brought a pitcher of mead from the cold room. He accepted a goblet from her, rolled the fizzing amber over his tongue and swallowed. "Even the darkest of the dark may be loved, Anselm. And no, I'm not saying that child is even close to that. But yes, there is a shadow in her. You might be blinded by the Light of the love you have for her in your soul. Or it may be something else entirely. But if you're asking if we sense darkness in her, the answer is yes, Anselm. I don't know what it was… I never knew her mother, only her father."

"Whom she does not take after." Anselm allowed, and she nodded. "She is Besseth, all over again. But Besseth was cleansed. She rose in the Light." He frowned, then leaned forward and rested his forehead against his forearm. "I think."

Aislinn only watched him, and he felt her calm stillness. "Mother…Mama…the first moment she touched me, everything changed. Everything went from broken to whole, and she was a death knight then. Is there something wrong with me? Is that why I don't see it in Tabitha?"

"Do you…love….her mother? Did you?"

Love. Anselm had no doubts that he loved Besseth, just not in the way that his mother was asking. "Not in that way. More in the way I feel about you. Even when she was cleansed, I didn't find her that attractive." Actually, he had found her vaguely repellent in that manner, especially after she had been cleansed. "And I can't explain why. Tabitha has her looks, and…"

"The child should be lovely."

"Exactly."

"There's little natural in what you're describing to me, Anselm, but I think you already know that. The Order has been little help in this, perhaps it's time to ask a different source. One neutral to this…maybe the Kirin Tor. But it seems to have been more trouble than it is worth, Anselm."

He hissed, shaking his head. Oh, no, anything but that. Besseth had made everything right, put the pieces in their places. She had made him a paladin, not a laughingstock. A fine paladin, worthy of his family name. "Go upstairs. Look down at Rion Kellemen and tell me that again."

"That child is his father's son." Aislinn hissed back. "Becoming involved with the Scourge, in any form, is folly! It's a crime and a sin that they allowed that entity to have any access at all to you, especially before the Church was done with her! It's an affront to all your father and I did. Those who died to keep you safe when our world was torn apart."

"She was the only one who made it make sense, Mother…"

Aislinn's face turned quick and vicious and he stared warily back at her. "That's the way of the darkness, Anselm! They make it seem easy. Seem right. You were struggling, she came to you, and suddenly the struggle was over. It clicked. You were great and fine, and you owed that to her. How very convenient."

Surely she couldn't really mean what he thought she did? "You're insinuating that I have been corrupted, by Besseth."

"I'm not insinuating, Anselm, I'm coming straight out and telling you so."

In spite of his outrage, he could feel a smile rise to his lips. "And what do you suggest I do about this?" He asked gently, watching the confusion cross her features. That was the question at the bottom of all of it. The Church had deemed Besseth cleansed. Tirion had called her paladin, sister, and had blessed her relationships with both Tibault and Anselm. "I won't deny that I love Besseth, Tibault, and their children. Besseth was a gift, Mother. You are so scarred by the Purge that you will not see beyond that time. Besseth fell because those around her pushed her over the edge. Any soul who understands what happened to her knows we failed her. If you want to scream about crimes and sins, affronts, I'll remind you that you and father were paladins of Lordaeron, charged with the defense of her population. Besseth was torn into and broken well before the Scourge rose, and the Order did nothing but stand by and let it happen. She was one of those populace of Lordaeron you so enjoy bringing up when you get started. The crime in this, the sin in this, is that Scourge was a rescue to her."

"You blame us?" She had gone pale, a high flush rising in her cheeks.

For the first moment he paused to consider that question. "Mother. You lived just a handful of miles from her. An hour by horse. She was tortured, and you…we…lived…just an hour away. So damned close. And did nothing. Let it happen, and now it comes back to repay us." It was all tied together, he just wasn't certain how. "This is closer than a paladin's lost duty. This was a neighbor, and we didn't see the darkness in her husband, even though they lived right under our damned noses!"

She remained doggedly silent, although the flush was still obvious. He knew why she didn't respond, because there was no answer. "Did he at least pay?" She finally ground out and Anselm blinked. "Her husband. The darkness under our noses that you tell me we missed….did he at least pay? Her place name was Southcross before she married Tibault, I can only assume it refers to the Southcross down creek from us?"

"It does. And he pays." He stood, feeling years older than his chronological age. "Mother, this is all tied together. I feel it. I cannot turn away from her, even if she is dead. I can't deny what part she has played in my life. What part she played in molding me into what I was meant to be. You say I am corrupt, that the corruption is something I can't feel. If that's so, then I am doomed, because all I have to follow is my soul. And it tells me I don't leave this. I….. Won't turn my back on Besseth again. Not now. Not ever." He stood heavily, thoughtful. If it required dealing with this Declan, as Tirion suggested, then he'd deal with Declan. It was always so much easier when it fell into place and the decision had been made. He nodded to himself, gave his mother an abbreviated bow, and climbed up to his own room near Rion's.

"A. B. C." Tabitha's voice had taken on a singsong tone, she had this rote down well. Declan watched her indulgently over the edge of the tome he was perusing, Darion had been generous with access to Acherus's libraries, from what he could tell. He'd been generous with everything regarding Acherus, and the Blade, from what he could tell.

Tabitha sat on a footstool, next to Bredit, a child's primer in her lap. She wore a lovely little dress, her hair braided with ribbons. She was utterly delightful, and every day that passed here strengthened the power that Declan sensed within her. Acherus seemed to agree with her, and Mograine seemed more than willing to maintain a hands off position with her.

"Declan." Diarmid's voice from the hallway startled him out of his reverie. He recognized the warning in it, although the call was smooth to those who didn't know Diarmid well. He knew Diar all too well, and by Bredit's acidly wary glance, she did as well. "Need to talk to you."

Declan sighed, marked his place in the book, stood and moved to the empty hallway. "What?" He demanded without preamble. So far, Acherus had been much better than he'd dared hope…

"Anselm Tiegan is here."

"Damn." Declan marveled. "Bold." But what else did he expect from one of his siblings? "I do not know him."

"He shows great promise. Had she had the time to finish with him…" Diarmid shrugged. "Not afraid to get his hands dirty. He stood at every offensive against the Citadel that the Crusade launched. Truly one of us, in spite of that paladin delusion."

"What does he want?"

"To speak to you."

Declan frowned. Surely the boy was not such a fool as to believe he could be swayed? He regarded his brother for a long moment, then sighed. "Where is he?" He'd at least hear the boy out. He deserved that much respect. He followed his brother to Darion's offices, empty of that one, but inhabited by one his soul recognized immediately even if he didn't. "Anselm Tiegan."

Yes, this was one. He had the requisite power in his soul, touched by Besseth. Tall, for a human, taller than Raien… heavy auburn hair, a steady hazel gaze under stern brows. In a decade or so, he would grow into that face, now he just looked like a boy doing his best to seem imposing.

"Declan Noonshimmer." The boy studied him for a long moment, and Declan had an odd desire to know just what his final measure was. "I've come to discuss this…as two adults…both of whom care for Tabitha and Rion."

"I'm not giving her back." Declan dropped his voice threateningly, and the boy stared right back.

"Not asking for that." He finally admitted, and Diarmid shifted curiously, his eyes going to his twin. "Not…in the way you think. Tirion believes that you all are better suited to raise Tabitha, and that view seems to be shared by more than a few. I…" Pain lodged in his eyes, but he plowed on, unimpeded by the now deadly silent twins. "Bow to their wisdom." It was almost difficult to hear the admission, and Declan raised a brow in Diarmid's direction. "I have… requests, however. I don't want to lose contact with her. And I really do not want her twin to lose contact with her. Of all, you two should…." He shrugged, but they weren't jumping in to help. "Understand that. I propose a compromise…"

Compromise? Declan was intrigued, and didn't bother to hide it. "Go on."

"We work out a neutral site for Rion and Tabitha to spend some time together, on a yearly basis. With equal representation between both…" He clenched his teeth, "families, to watch over them."

"I do not want to steal her twin from Tabitha." Declan allowed. "We will need to work out the details, but…yes, Anselm… this is acceptable." It was just another concession he was willing to make for the child's wellbeing, at least until her mother was able to take up that job again. "Welcome to the family."

The boy looked almost ill at the words, and Declan chuckled. He was willing to accept Besseth as his mother…but unwilling to accept the rest of the package so readily. But Besseth had done the choosing of them, none of them had truly chosen her. Anselm would just have to come to peace with that, in his own way, on his own time. "Because, Anselm…" He continued slowly, "We aren't families, as you put it. We are a single family. You are our brother, and you have Rion. Don't ever forget that." Besseth should have taught him this. Probably would have taught him this, had she been granted the time to do so. But she couldn't, and it was now up to Declan to teach Anselm where he belonged.

"Aren't you angry with her? Betrayed? She left you all…"

Diarmid snorted behind him, and Declan sighed. To be so young, to have these things be so damned concrete again. It was both appealing and completely terrifying. "Besseth did not betray us, Anselm. Ever. She annoys me on occasion, but what mother does not? That would never change how I feel for her. She was sent to Light's Hope in the attempt to draw out Tirion and whoever else would come. That succeeded. Mograine failed to hold the line, and the master came. She did not betray us, she merely could not hold the same ground that Mograine, which the Master himself, had failed to hold. I cannot judge against her for that. She was captured, told to remain where she was, and she did the best she could." He sighed, shook his head. "But of all that is passed, Anselm. The master is no more, and we no longer stand in his service. The soul who held our hearts enthralled has been destroyed, and we are free." For good or ill, Declan still had not determined that. He never felt betrayed, abused, wronged. Now he stood, saddened and resigned to the loss of the Master. But existence went on.

"I know. I was there. I had hoped that would be some rescue for you…"

Again, Diarmid snorted, and Declan stared at this brother. Rescue, from a service he had rarely felt burdened by. "Anselm, do you wish to be rescued from the Order?"

"No." The boy knew where this was headed; Declan could see that in the stubborn set of his jaw, but reprieve came from a shorter source.

"Enough of this." Bredit snapped from the doorway, maternal spite dripping from the syllables. "If ye mean that we come together as a family, Declan, Anselm, then this is ground we need to agree we don't go over until we're good an' ready for it. An' we're not, yet. This is good, we agree to try and raise both bairns as a whole family. That's enough, right now."

Diarmid chuckled, finally dropping his guard position behind Declan. "Yes, small motherly one." He stated, moving past Bredit and completing the insult by affectionately rubbing Bredit's head as he did so. She merely glared at him, then expanded the glare to include a smiling Declan and a stunned Anselm. "You. Come to see the wee one…she's in there." She jerked a chin at Anselm, motioning him into the room that the three of them had come out of. Declan was used to being ordered around by a woman who barely came to his waist, but Anselm's expression was blank in response.

"Go see Tabitha. She's in the room." He prodded, and Anselm finally nodded. The boy moved past Bredit, and Declan sighed when he heard him call the little girl's name. She shrilled in answer, bolting to him, book falling forgotten in her wake.

"Uncle Anselm!" She crowed, imperiously extending her hands to be picked up.


	6. Chapter 6

Tabitha loved her new home. Unlike the farm, which had so many things she wasn't allowed to climb, or touch, or see, this place was so large that the doors barred against her were small insults. Also, here, John was permitted to cling to her in open view, serving as half guardian half watch dog…growling when she did something she shouldn't, and not above tucking her bodily under an elbow and bounding away with her if he wasn't comfortable with something. So many crooks, so many crannies, accessible with the help of a very nimble geist. She understood, vaguely, that most of those around her were not entirely alive, but that made little difference. They acted alive, and that was good enough for her.

The blonde woman in the room next to Declan's, however, did not act alive. She acted quite dead, and Tabitha regarded her warily. She didn't move when Tabitha curiously poked her with a finger. Didn't chuckle when Tabitha went nose to nose with her. "She's….dead." She marveled, feeling John's attention on her.

"Ssssleepy dead. Plaaaaying dead." He muttered in disgust, and she turned carefully on the chair she had pulled up to the bed for a better vantage point to look down at him.

"So…she's not dead?" Dead was an entirely different state than Declan, than Diarmid. Dead was the occasional puff of dead feathers she found on the terraces. The occasional rat crushed around the necropolis. She even understood that people really died, like the rats and birds, but they weren't the same kind of dead as those who cared for her. This woman had some of the earmarks of truly dead…motionless. Cold, but she didn't feel empty. But she didn't move. And that made her both ceaselessly fascinating and strangely boring all at once.

"Dead, ssssure." He agreed, hopping to hang gracefully from the bed's canopy and staring intently down at the very still woman. "Killllllled, ssssure. Blood ssspilled onto the iccce. Then sssshe hid from the call to raisssse her."

"Oh." Tabitha poked the woman again, with the expected lack of results. "Who is she?"

John paused, and Tabby knew he was running through the long and often contradictory list of commands given to him by his masters. "Bessshetttth." He muttered, and Tabitha frowned. It was a harsh name for him to attempt, and she considered it. "Besheth?" She attempted, and he shook his head.

"Bessssss." He swallowed the sibilants, "Eth."

"Besseth?" She'd heard that name before, she just couldn't place it.

"Yesssss. That." He dropped onto the bed, the impact of landing not enough to even shift the woman's weight. "Ssshe who raisssed Declan. Ssshe who raisssed Diarmid. Bredit. My wife." He tilted his head sharply. "Your mottthhher."

Tabitha's heart stopped. Mother? Wife? Surely that didn't mean that John was her father? And her mother hid? "My mama?" She repeated dubiously. John was not above twisting the truth. He was also not above getting her into trouble. But he was trusted enough to care for her… her father?

"Your mmmmama." He agreed. "Too ssssleeepy and fffffrightened to come be witttth you."

That didn't sound good. "You're my father?" His snake stance, one of the first signs that he was up to no good, faded immediately.

"Nnnnnooo. Sssshe had another." He shrugged. "You can wake her up…"

"They are fools." The male voice was almost amused, and sad. "Tabitha cannot raise the dead. She is a child. She has the soul of a paladin again."

"Tabitha can raise Besseth." The answering female voice was firm, assured.

"How so? She cannot cast that spell…"

"That spell has already been cast upon Besseth Southcross. The power has already been committed to her. She is a raised death knight, the child of Kel'thuzad. She fled from Arthas's call out of fear. She does not hear Bolvar's call. But she will hear the call of her daughter."

"Will you keep her from that call as you kept her from Arthas's?" His voice was cautious.

"No. When Tabitha calls, I will release the hold on Besseth Southcross. She will return. She is required, my consort. She has evaded her destiny long enough."

"I can?" Tabitha contemplated that idea. "But… John, is she supposed to wake up?" Maybe she was being held like so many bad things were being held here? Not meant to wake up.

"Ifff ssshe wasss not, ttthen Declan would not keep her here. Where you could ffffind her."

That had a certain logic that Tabitha could not defy. She grasped the sleeve of the woman's lovely gown, gave it a shake and…

"Mama! Wake up!"

The yell permeated the deep sleep that Besseth had been enjoying, as brutal as if she'd been dropped into a Northrend lake. She went from so far asleep to wide awake in a split second… sitting bolt upright, her eyes snapping open. The first thing that met her eyes were the bright eyes of the geist perched between her knees. John's face was the absolute worst thing to wake up to and she howled in anger and distress. That dissolved into a massive coughing fit as a full gasp filled lungs that had been empty for years.

Declan had been playing chess with Bredit when the scream echoed through their chambers. Screaming in a necropolis was not, in itself, worthy of note. Acherus was sanitized, calmed from the usual behaviors indulged within one, but it still had darkness within it. What brought him to his feet and headed for the door fast enough to up end the chess board onto Bredit was the sheer proximity of the noise, and the fact he could recognize the person who sounded like that.

The erupting noise did indeed come from the room they kept Besseth in, and he hit the door at full speed, Diarmid falling into step behind him as that one burst from his own chamber. Besseth, awake, aware and yelling, was on her knees in the bed. John had sought refuge in the highest point in the room, hissing angrily from the geist perch there, his eyes glowing in the shadows. Tabitha was beginning the hiccupping entry into a great crying fit.

"Wha' the hell?" Bredit, slower to launch than the paired quel'dorei, had nonetheless made the doorway in good time, and she had words when the twins had none. Declan was too stunned to do anything more than to stand and stare. This was not how he had imagined this….

"Declan! Diarmid!" Besseth was holding her belly tightly, as she had been when she had fallen, a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding that had claimed her. Her eyes were glowing as purely blue as Declan's own, their usual brown shade wiped away. "What?"

"Oh, my…." Bredit breathed, moving around the immobile Declan. "She…rose."

"Mother…" Finally, some sense returned, and Declan was able to speak. "You have, yes. Risen." She was one of them, after all this time. He could feel it. See it. The brilliant glow in her eyes. The aura of power and command clinging to her. She was just as he'd hoped for, just as he'd dreamed. She was a death knight of vast potential and deep grace. No more second best, no more also ran. She was finally, truly his equal, or his better. Finally a true member of his family, not held beyond them by her stubborn mortality. So damned glorious…

"How the hell?" Diarmid demanded, scooping Tabitha from the floor and sweeping her up to his shoulder. "Declan?"

And for the life of him, Declan had no answer. That part of his mind still working on a level beyond the stunned realization that Besseth had risen was at a loss. He was aware that losing Icecrown, losing Kel'thuzad, had gutted their plans to groom Tabitha to be the necromancer that would accomplish their goals. And he had certainly never considered that a four year old could do it. "I don't know." He admitted, moving closer to the bed. "Besseth?"

There was naked panic in her eyes and he sighed. Rising was never easy. He could remember it as if it were yesterday. Pain, panic, an electric chill coiled deep in his gut. The feeling that the world around him had sped up, while the important things had slowed to a crawl. "Declan?" She demanded, and he smiled. There was steel under his name, she was coming back to herself. Some didn't… He didn't think that Besseth would be so fragile as to be broken by her own rising, but it happened.

"Mother."

Her eyes, so so so blue, skimmed over his face before she frowned and turned her gaze to Diarmid. "I thought I heard….?" She muttered, "Tabitha." Confusion settled on her features again, and suspicion added as she stared at the child Diarmid held.

"I did something bad!" Tabitha wailed, thumping her forehead against Diarmid's shoulder. "It's John's fault! He told me to!"

John? Declan's gaze rose to the spiteful, hissing geist clinging to his perch. "John?" He asked, and the geist twisted to regard him. "What did you do?" And how had he done it? The geist had been the answer?

John dropped from his perch, landing on all fours on the floor beside the bed. "Kel'tttthhhuzzzzad thought too much. Never ssssssaw the trutttttttthhhhh. Tttthhhhought sssshe hadn't rissssssen. Tttttthhhhhought he fffailed." The geist chuckled wickedly. "Didn't. Sssssshhhe wouldn't wake up, but sssssshhhhhhe had risssssen."

"If she had already risen," Bredit snarled, "Then we didn't need a necromancer to raise her…"

Because Kel'thuzad already had. Declan bowed his head, closed his eyes, and rubbed at his temples. All they had needed was someone to wake her, to call her back. No magic beyond that of a birth bond had been truly necessary. "Welcome back, my mother. And yes, you heard Tabitha call for you."

"Tabitha? That's my Tabitha?" A dawning comprehension was rising on her face. "I….died. A while ago, if that's Tabitha."

"Four years ago." Declan cautiously sat on the edge of the bed. "Not a terribly long time…" Not in their scale of time. Tabitha was still small enough that she probably wouldn't remember much of this time, of when Besseth had rested.

She frowned, standing on wobbly legs. Declan placed his fingertips on her shoulders, just in case she fell, but she seemed fairly stable. She looked different. She felt different, larger. She even smelled differently. "Tibault?" She looked around, realization fixing on her features. "This is a necropolis."

"Acherus." May as well just get it all out in the open, hiding things from Besseth was a futile attempt, and he got the feeling it had just gotten even more futile.

"Mograine." There was condemnation and more than a little curiosity in the name, and Diarmid smirked outright… She had reached Diarmid by then and rested a hand on Tabitha's back. Diar relinquished the child to her without pause, and she took up the burden of her firstborn's weight.

"We were left with few choices when Icecrown fell. When the Master was cut down. We had you, we had Tabitha, we had lost so many… You taught us to persevere." Hopefully she would still see it that way. "By any means necessary."

She tilted her head, the stance she had always taken when she was graced with the focus of the Master upon her, when she heard his voice within her heart. "He is gone." She whispered, stunned. "It has fallen… What am I doing here if I am not to serve him? Where is Tibault?"

Diarmid's glance at his twin was saddened, mournful, and Declan sighed. "Tibault is in Stormwind, I believe." He'd actually not paid that much attention to Besseth's probable new ex husband. Even if she went back to him, even if Declan had to wait, he now had the time. Tibault was mortal. Besseth was no longer that.

"You have Tabitha here." She stroked the child's thick blonde hair thoughtfully.

"The Order has Rion." Bredit finally injected herself into the conversation, stolid and calming. "Anselm has him. We came to an agreement. Tibault has…" Bredit shrugged, "Left the Order, at least temporarily. At his age, perhaps permanently. We live in Acherus, under Mograine and the Ebon Blade's sanctuary now. Perhaps temporarily. Perhaps permanently. Now that you're up again, you can decide that."

"I am…" Declan cringed at the tone in her voice. Why couldn't she be content? She was so damned beautiful like this, and she'd rather be a carcass? Rather deny them? "Risen after the Master falls? To serve Mograine? Declan, I…. am a paladin! Tibault Kellemen's wife!" Her eyes blazed as she dared him to say it aloud. Diarmid had gone still, silent. Bredit had gone into her unwavering calm in the face of a storm stance.

"You are those things no more, Mother." They were going to leave him to be the one to handle a newly risen and none too happy Besseth. He had no grasp of her strengths and abilities yet, all he had to go on was what he felt emanating from her. And that unnerved him, because what he did feel was deep, rich, powerful.

"Which one of you blithering fools thought you were equal to the task of raising me?" She was truly working herself into a righteous rage, her voice trembling. She did that so rarely…

John chuckled, bounding back up to the geist perch and hanging upside down from it. Declan was well pleased, he was a favored target of Besseth's temper, and it was better that was focused on him right now rather than any of the children. "Kellllll'Thhhhuzzzzad." He crowed. "And the Massssssssster. Bottttttthhhhhh gone now. Bye-bye! You are sssstuck now, Bessssheth. Like we all are…."

She hissed, the fire in her eyes rising as she snatched him magically from his perch and sent him skittering across the floor beyond her to collide with the wall. The geist crumpled, unmoving. "Damn fool." She growled, staring at the still form in outrage. "I never asked for you, ever. I did not raise you! I wanted you dead! Gone! Forever! Do not blame the fact you persist upon me!"

"He is not through paying for his sins." Diarmid snapped. "You may have never seen that, Mother, but we use him to serve you. He does not deserve rest."

"And now I am supposed to serve Mograine?"

"No." Mograine's voice was steady from behind them, and Besseth spun. "Somehow." He breathed, stepping into the light of the room, "You have always seen our dealings as an attempt on my part to subvert you, make you submissive to me, Besseth." He moved past Bredit, closing with Besseth, a tangible flow of calm thrown into a rising chaos. "You finally rose." He studied her for a long moment, comfortable with the silence after his words. "And rose well. We all rage at this point, Besseth. You yourself told me that. I think…" His eyes roamed over the collected family, "We should remember the advice of a seasoned creator of death knights at this moment. Lead the new one through rage and panic, and do not touch the pain of what they have just lost. It does no good and much ill. Do you not agree, Besseth?"

She glowered impotently at him. "They are my own words, Mograine, how can I dispute them?"

"Exactly, Besseth. No good and much ill. They love you, do not erode away that because you are angry and frightened at things they had little play in. You created a family designed to carry your children through the trauma of what you are currently experiencing… May I suggest you avail yourself of their services now that it is your turn?"

"What are you doing here?" She demanded, and he shrugged.

"Raien came to get me. Said you had risen without warning, and that it might get ugly. Arguing this with Tabitha in the room is not the brightest idea. Arguing this with a freshly risen is not the brightest idea. You have brought many through this, Besseth. Now bring yourself through it. Rest in the care of your family."

He nodded to himself, spun, and left the room…leaving silence in his wake. He had been gone for a long moment before Declan edged into motion again, warily resting a hand on Besseth's shoulder. "Mother, please?" She was stubborn, he knew that, but she had to realize it was over. There was no going back, only forward.

"I didn't want this!" She snarled, stepping forward so that his hand fell.

"None of us did."

"So you blame me. And this is my repayment, like John's?"

Blame? He bowed his head for a long moment, feeling Diarmid's stare fixed on the top of it. "My mother." He sighed, rolling his weight up to the balls of his feet, then setting back down, one hand grasping the other wrist behind his back. "Why did you raise me? Diarmid?" He could add the whole list, but his and his brother's creation story was the one he was certain of.

"You were too lovely to go away like that." She whispered, "It is the same as I have always told you."

"No retribution? No vengeance?"

"No. I felt no ill will towards either of you…truly…"

"Then understand that we bear no ill will, that we did what we did because you were too lovely to let go like that, Besseth Southcross."

Dead. It was a state that Besseth had contemplated too many times, and something she had dreaded facing. But here she was. Dead. And very much aware of it. And she was sheltered again by a necropolis. Tibault….

"Until death do you part." It was ironic; she lay here garbed in her wedding gown, contemplating the loss of her marriage. His ring still encircled her finger. The ring of the Order still circled the other.

"I don't feel any different. It's a mistake, they're wrong." It sounded even emptier and more foolish in the silence of the bedchamber they had put her in to 'sleep it off'. As if this was a drunken spree that sleep would cure. She stood, and moved cautiously towards the glass in the corner… It would just show Besseth. No difference, no change, just….the same easily overlooked woman as before…

"Oh, damn." The breath was half stunned denial and half total disbelief. Declan and Diarmid were, if possible, all the better for their undead natures. Taller, more majestic, more imposing… and the glass showed a Besseth true to that trend. "No." It was obvious and completely undeniable. She could not even contemplate trying to hide this… Her hair was the same tea blonde of the living Besseth, but that was one of the few remaining points. She had paled again, her features starkly regal. Her eyes glowed, and glowered. It was most certainly the wrong face for her, and she fingered the skirts of her wedding gown in distress.

Well, that was something she could do something about, at least, and she carefully slipped out of it. She was much smaller now and it came off easily enough. They had buried her in it, of course, and it stayed with her now. But to wear it here, like this, seemed like a farce. She peered cautiously out of the door, not surprised that Diarmid stood watch just on the other side of it. What he was watching for, she wasn't certain. An escape? A rescue? A suicide attempt? An escape….except she was aware that there was probably nowhere to go. There was a reason why she was where she was, if the Master had fallen, then all of the usual sanctuaries were no longer options. Rescue? She was dead. The Order had no rescue for her. Suicide? Difficult, bloody, painful, and all too often futile. If she was anywhere near as lovely as those she had created, her destruction would be a long, drawn out affair she wasn't willing to endure. But then she'd never been willing to endure it…

"Mother." Diarmid returned warily, obviously damning himself that he stood alone. He hadn't been expecting her to open the door, even if she hid the majority of herself behind it. He'd been expecting a sullen sulk; she could read that across his features.

"Send in Bredit. Tell her I need appropriate clothing…now."

Relief flirted across his features, he smiled and bowed. "Of course, my mother. Immediately." He spun, and was gone. She sighed, shaking her head, and shutting the door behind him.

It took Bredit several minutes to knock, and Besseth opened the door far enough to let the dwarf slide in before closing it again with a firm push. Bredit blinked, glancing between the naked Besseth, and the dress hanging from the richly carved chair beside the bed.

"I'm glad you changed out of that. It's a bad reminder for now. I brought you something more suitable."

Besseth sighed, almost afraid to know what Bredit considered more suitable now. She was possibly the most sane and grounded of the children, but she had a wicked streak that had been so appealing. "Tibault will have none of this." She mourned, turning to her daughter. The dwarf did not argue the point, merely held out a pile of fabric in response. It was black, of course, and Besseth snorted in answer.

"Icecrown has fallen." That was a void in her soul, there was no doubts. And he had fallen with it. The master was gone, and any and all retribution he could wreak was gone with him.

"He never held it against you. He was disappointed when you did not rise, but the rest of it, no. No betrayal, Mother. None of this is a betrayal. You served him. He sent you away. You did your best. You served the Order. You married a man. You died with a blade in your hand and steel in your heart, to uphold those oaths. Let them go now."

"I don't know how to be without them." The idea of being free was a concept she wasn't sure she was ready to face. No father. No husband…common law or church bound. No Master. No Order. There had always been something holding her.

She sighed, held up the garment that Bredit had produced. It was lovely. And when she pulled it over her head, it fit like it had been made for her. "You've been planning…" She accused. That was not unusual, Bredit was a fine planner, calm and level headed.

"No. Actually not." Bredit pulled to snug the ribbon laces down the back of the gown. "If the truth is to be told, I didna think you would raise, ever. I felt this was all foolishness, but it gave Declan something to reach for. And it brought us Tabitha. Girl doesna belong with the Order, she's yours. Ours." She smoothed the skirt, narrowing her eyes. "But I am thinking that Darion Mograine has been doing some deep planning. This was in a chest in my rooms…with a note with your name stuck to it."

Again, Mograine. Besseth sighed gustily. "Man needs to be blinded if he's been looking at me this closely." I'm a married woman lurked behind her teeth as a continuation, but she held it in.

"Well, it's lovely. They all are, my mother. Mograine has been beyond generous; perhaps he deserves a little less of our venom…?"

"He is…unworthy." Or he had been. He had not felt that way just hours before, standing in the doorway of this room.

"He would go on to betray the Master, and you deemed him unworthy. You warned the Master that he was." She motioned at the stool before the fine glass and dressing table, and Besseth perched on it with a gusty sigh, allowing her daughter to brush and neatly braid her hair. "Therefore, where you were then, he was unworthy. But…right now, let us take care of you. We'll figure out what he wants later. You should try to get some rest…."

Besseth had never felt less like resting, and she let her expression say so. Bredit only chuckled, resting her hands on Besseth's shoulders. "I know. Feels like you'll never sleep again…or it did when you raised me. I can only hope that Kel'thuzad did as masterful a job on you as you accomplished with us, or better."

That was a thought that Besseth didn't want to face. Just how competent had Kel'thuzad been? It was a foolish one, could there have been any better? But had she deserved the best then? Why would Kel'thuzad have given her, a traitor, his full measure? "Hmmph." She grumbled, and Bredit chuckled.

"I'm sure he did just fine. You feel…very nice." Bredit noted, patting her shoulder.

Very nice. Besseth stared stormily at her own reflection in the glass before her. Very nice indeed, if one happened to be dead. But that was the measure that Bredit used, how fine a creation was Besseth? How did the power of the Frozen Throne sit within her? How much power did she wield now locked within her?

"You say this like it's a good thing."

Bredit's storm blue eyes met hers in the glass. "I happen to think it's a wondrous thing, my Mother."

Damn her. Damn them all. Didn't they realize what they had done? "You were already dead when I came to you. I took nothing from you, Bredit. Declan. Diarmid. All the same." Only Ellorie had any chance of claiming that Besseth had stolen from her, and Ellorie was an empty spot now. She had been destroyed.

"Unless I am mistaken, you gave yourself to the Master. He had every reason to believe what he was doing was for the best. You served him longer than almost any; this was meant to be a reward. And you know that. If Tibault is so easily turned from you, then he does not deserve you. The Ebon Blade and the Argent Crusade serve shoulder to shoulder. Anselm is a regular visitor here, and I feel he will accept this in time. Stand, Besseth. And turn your back on those who would rather see you dead and rotting. Embrace those willing to know that you are still yourself. There are probably more of those than you hope to believe."

The problem was… Besseth believed her.

"Anselm." Declan's voice was deep with warning, and Anselm sighed. It had been going so well, but he knew that it was a fragile and tenuous situation. Had they reconsidered? Was Mograine growing tired of his repeated visits? A paladin could overstay his welcome in a place like this…

"We need to talk. Before you see Tabitha."

Anselm sighed, nodded, and followed Declan into the room that the family used as an office and library. He'd spent a lot of time in here, with Tabitha…

"It's about Besseth." Declan stated without preamble, the moment he had the door securely closed behind him. "I…I….don't know how to put this gently, so I'm just going to say it. She…rose…three days ago."

Rose? Anselm felt nothing at first, a perfect lack of comprehension and realization. "Besseth…rose?" He repeated dumbly. Surely that didn't mean what he thought it meant? Tabitha was just a baby. She couldn't have? Had they found another? Another better than whoever had tried it first? Had one of the elder children tried? And succeeded? "How? Who?" Mograine? "I can't believe that Tabby…"

"Tabitha made the call, but Besseth is Kel'thuzad's creation. She is awake. Aware. And extremely annoyed."

"She never wanted to die. She never wanted to raise." But she had, if Anselm was to believe Declan. "You have to expect her to be distraught. This means losing so much…." Tibault, to begin with. Certainly the man had not been himself lately, not the man who had helped grow Anselm into a paladin, but he was still Besseth's husband. Still loved her. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have taken her loss so harshly.

"Lost." Declan growled, and Anselm regarded him. "If those who claim to love her flee her after this, then she is better off without them. Are you one of those?" There was a challenge in Declan's glowing eyes when he locked Anselm's gaze. "Are you going to abandon her now?"

"No." Anselm responded simply. "I told my mother very recently that I could not, would not, turn my back on Besseth. I mean that, Declan. She helped make me whole, I will not make her less by turning from her when she needs me." He sat, studying the chessboard laid out on the table before him, mind spinning as it tried to grasp this. "Is she…going to be well? I mean, did it work? Work well?" Besseth would eat herself to pieces if she wasn't a fine example of the breed. If she was, once again, lacking.

"She is magnificent. Superlative. Which annoys her."

Anselm snorted. Everything would annoy her at this point…if she was wondrous, then it was merely affirmation of all she had been told, a joke against her grindingly stubborn fight to remain alive. If she lacked, then it would be an eternity still being mediocre, those few shining months as a paladin a reminder of what she could have been. Should have been. Had been. "Fighting a losing battle there." He stated, and Declan nodded, taking the seat across from him. "Nothing will be right until she calms down. Until she loses what she is going to lose, and understands what she will not lose." He stared blankly ahead for a long moment, girding his strength. "Can I see her?"

"Except for Bredit, whom she tolerates for the necessities, she hasn't wanted to see any of us. Including Tabitha…"

Anselm nodded. The child was just another reminder, and a stranger. She'd been an infant in arms, a fortnight old, when Besseth had fallen. That would take time to work out. "I still want to see her." To rest eyes upon Besseth, to know, deep in his heart, that she was aware again.

"Follow me." Declan led the way to a door, regarded it warily, then pushed it open. He waved Anselm in, stepping away himself. Anselm crossed into the room, not surprised to see it was very gracefully and tastefully appointed, a lovely bed, glass, table and chairs.

She sat in the chair immediately opposite the door, her back to him, and his heart seized. He'd know that soul anywhere; recognize the deep blonde of the braid falling over the armrest. She paused, stilled at the sound of the door closing. "Anselm." She finally greeted after the pause grew long. He grinned in spite of himself; he'd missed the gravelly depth of her voice.

"Greetings, Lady Besseth!"

She sighed audibly, closed the book she had been reading, and placed it on the small table at her elbow. "I had expected you, of all people, to be just a little less thrilled about this than my other children are. I raised you to be a fine paladin, Anselm." She stood and turned, and his heart fell. She was as magnificent as Declan had promised…

"You did, yes. And truthfully, I would rather see you living and breathing any day. I would rather be able to call you sister, mother, and bring you home to the Order. But I must admit I'd rather have you beside me as this rather than a motionless corpse. The Order may condemn that, but it is how I see it."

"You're twisted." She accused, an overlying laugh a pale attempt to take the venom and truth from her words. He shrugged, spreading his hands in mild supplication.

"I know that. And if I didn't, my mother has been fairly vocal in her attempt to make certain I do. But the Light still blesses me. Tirion still calls me brother. A fine paladin." He gently repeated her earlier phrase. "So I am a little less bright for knowing you." He considered her for a long moment. She looked good. She felt strong. The waning and waxing illness he was used to feeling from freshly raised undead was not there. She felt as if she had been this way for a long time, like the greater undead he knew. Darion Mograine felt like this. "What now?" He finally got the nerve to ask, and she snorted.

"I want to go…do something." She muttered. "There has got to be something. To take me away from Acherus… I want to…" She eyed him sideways, "kill something. Pick up my axe and just…destroy…something." The expression turned hunted, wary, and he nodded in understanding. She was a fresh death knight. Her runed blade had been unused for years. She'd been at rest for years. And now she felt as wound up as a three year old stud colt stabled all winter and grain fed.

"Join Mograine and the Ashen Verdict on the ground in Northrend. Arthas may be down, but we'll be chasing the leftovers for years. You are familiar with the lands. The tactics. Who should be chased, and who should just be left alone in peace."

"Join Mograine." She wrinkled her lip. "Seems to be everyone's answer these days."

"Then give us some credit and at least consider it. What is your problem with Mograine?"

She pursed her lips in thought, her eyes flaming. "He was unworthy to serve the Master."

"And so he was. But the Master, as you put it, no longer has any hold on you. Mograine might have been unworthy, with the streak that caused him to leave… But is he worthy to have you join him now? Join, not serve? I think you've done enough serving for now…" She had served for so long; maybe it was best to keep pointing her at Mograine. Her pride would keep her from falling to him as a servant. She had served John. Served Arthas. Served the Order. Besseth was nothing but a servant…or she had been. Now was the time for her to grow beyond that. "You made your family valued under the Lich King. Now you need to lead them into a valued position without him…and that will have to be with the Ebon Blade. Look beyond what was, see what is." He could just stand and stare as long as she'd permit him…. She really was there. Awake. Aware. The same flow of expressions crossing her face, the same deep voice. The changes just seemed to enforce those things that had not changed. Almost without thought, he reached out and grasped her, pulling her into a sudden embrace. She bristled for a second before she calmed and accepted it, resting her forehead on his shoulder. "Anselm…"

"Besseth. Welcome back." He patted her back, then released her. "But consider Mograine. I really think he's your best hope here."

"And Mograine is where?" He had been close by, present when she had risen, but he had moved away, out of her senses. She was betting Northrend, but that was no guarantee.

"Northrend." Anselm confirmed. "You're coming to stand on the ground beside us?" There was hope in that, unlike his siblings, Anselm had been shortchanged with his training. He'd never truly ridden beside her.

"There are things I need from Northrend, and I will give Mograine a chance to say his peace." She frowned, and he nodded slowly. She was calming, but she was still very unhappy with this. And would be for a long, long time. She gave him a truly enraged stare, before turning away from him and casting a death gate. Her gaze remained vicious as she studied it, then she snorted, shrugged, and walked through it, leaving Anselm behind.

Northrend. It shouldn't feel so right. And now, it felt more right than it had ever been when she lived. Her hold had been abandoned, little there to attract attention to it, and she stepped through into the library. It was empty; all of the books gone to Acherus for safe keeping, but Besseth wasn't here for books.

She followed the hallway down, stopping at a panel. It had been untouched, not even the children had breached it, and it slid open easily when she grasped it. Why had she hidden this? From those who loved her? She stepped into the small room, her eyes locked on the harness of armor. It would have been just one more affirmation to them that she was meant to be a great servant of the one, true king. Another mark of his favor. Another example of her spiteful stubbornness.

"Take this, Besseth. As a reminder of what I offer you at the moment you choose to accept it. The moment you truly become one of my greatest servants." The master had been solemn, calm, as he usually was when he dealt with her. Regretful was perhaps a better word, like a parent faced with a child who made no sense, but was still vastly loved in spite of it. "A token of my appreciation for your dedication. You stood behind me when few others did. I do not forget. You may forego, but I always remember… Besseth Southcross."

The armor had been glorious then, even with the understanding that she could not take it up. It had been too much, too heavy, too weighty with enchantments. She rested a hand upon it, already knowing the answer. It was no longer too much. No longer too much a burden, physically or spiritually. She was finally ready to be that servant…and he was no longer here to serve. "Damn it." She snarled, but the haunting silence of the hold did not answer. She was, once again, too bloody damn late. "I didn't think…" That it would end this way. That they would crumble in her natural lifetime. The Lich King was immortal, theirs forever… But that was pretty much the answer to everything. Besseth didn't think. Or she didn't move in time. She hissed, galvanizing into motion, shedding the gown that Mograine had gifted her with, replacing it with gambeson and breeches…. And the armor granted to her years ago. Her axe was in her rooms, with the cloak and chain, and she rested them all on her shoulders. It was time to go find Mograine, see what the man wanted.

"There's a death knight coming on fast." The watch disturbed Mograine, and he stood slowly. There were many death knights, coming and going. For them to come get him meant that this one was not wearing the marks of the Ebon Blade, and they had not been accurately identified. Now warned and focused, he could feel this one's presence, and he frowned. He didn't recognize their feel. And the watch looked concerned…

He climbed to the top of the overlooking rise, raising spyglass to his eye. And now he understood why they looked concerned. He didn't know this one, as difficult as that was to believe, but they had been deeply in the Lich King's favor, judging by their armor. Anyone that valued should be immediately recognizable, yet he didn't…. until he caught sight of the fall of cloak, blue and white, bright against the darkened armor, and the shadow skeleton of the great dread charger. Besseth. Only she would dare wear that cloak. "Let her pass, and show her to me when she arrives." It had taken her much less time than he'd been expecting to bend and take it up. Perhaps she was mellowing with age. He snorted audibly at the very idea, dismissing it before it truly bloomed. He wouldn't know what to do with a mellow Besseth, the very idea was anathema. Her value had always been her unyielding nature.

He returned to his tent to wait, and admired the scene when she passed through the tent fly. Nice. Very, very, very nice. "Good morning, Besseth." He greeted, tearing his eyes from her and motioning at a stool across from him. That armor was as fine as any he'd ever seen produced from Icecrown, and she'd been hiding it. Like she hid everything else.

"Knew it was me." She pulled the helm away, staring at from brightly glowing cyan eyes. Her hair was brightening as well, now at least three shades blonder than the last time he'd seen her, at her raising. He hoped she hadn't noticed it yet, it was a tantrum in the making. The best thing to do would be to just get her too busy and preoccupied to mull on the changes occurring with her.

"You don the Lordaeron throne room banner as a cloak again, and expect me to not recognize your personal blazon? You have never worn the flag of the Scourge….when you are Besseth, the death knight, you wear Terenas's flag." A gift from Arthas, Darion was not immune to that symbolism.

"I'm predictable." She chuckled, and he shrugged. No more predictable than any other who wore recognizable gear.

"Rather like saying Arthas was predictable because he wore the Helm." He noted aloud, and a flurry of expressions ran across her face. Pain, still. She would not give up on that one easily, even after he had fallen. Darion would love to know just what Arthas had done to deserve such devotion…even now. It wasn't the Lich King she worshipped; it had been the fallen prince. Now, after his death, her soul was clean of bonds. She did not hear Bolvar, who wore the Helm of Domination now. "I'm sorry, Besseth."

"You got what you wanted." She muttered, and he pursed his lips in answer. Yes, he had, and to deny that would just insult her intelligence.

"What now?" Why was she here, of all places? Here, vibrating with rage and glory, enough to send the guards into a watchful caution. He could see her staying in Acherus. Perhaps even Stormwind, to face Tibault head on. Her hold here in Northrend, wherever that happened to be. He did not expect her to come to him this quickly.

She fidgeted, glanced to the side, and realization dawned. So much power, imbued into her. Freshly dead. An awakening rune weapon now tied to a true death knight. "Never mind, you hunger, and you know I'll unleash that. Fair enough, Besseth. As you noted, I helped push for this, and I will point you into the interior of Northrend. Not even you survived the Lich King's service without making enemies. And all of those enemies remain away from us, so go get them." She could traverse the deepest parts of Northrend with impunity; let her hunt those who had spoken when her back was only slightly turned, those who called her less, pathetic, broken, trash. There had been plenty willing to try and turn Arthas's regard of her away, to vainly try and point out how small she was. How weak she was. How useless she was. She might be stubborn, might have clung to life with a startling voracity. Might have shunned the glory that the Lich King wanted to festoon her with, but Besseth was prickly proud from her toes to the top of her head. He'd be willing to bet that those comments hurt, and that Besseth wasn't the soul to forgive or forget those who had spilled them before her. "You left Acherus, and Tabitha."

She sent him a glare. "I can't handle Tabitha and this all at once. I'll say something; do something, which I'll spend the next decade trying to fix. I'd rather have her wait, than hurt her. She's lived four years without me; she can wait a little longer."

"Fair enough, and probably the truth of it." Good. She was still thinking logically. She was angry, but not so far gone she couldn't be dealt with. "So… Besseth…. Will you finally listen to me?"

Her chin dropped slightly and she sighed, folding her arms. The pale light played across the darkness of her armor, still new, still immaculate…untouched. "You want me to join the Ebon Blade. Bring Declan, Diarmid, Bredit…with me."

"Yes. This is still a war, Besseth. You came here to kill, but even the likes of you needs a place to fall back to. Right now, the Ebon Blade is the only force that lends any kind of credibility to us. Without it, without us, you're a rogue undead death knight; you can no longer hide among the living, as the living. Your offspring as well. We exist hand in hand with the Order now, it only makes sense…" That now that she could no longer belong to the Order, that she move over to the only place she truly could go. "Besseth. I am not here to subjugate you…"

"You are not him!" She spat. "I served him! Even in the Order…"

Mograine grimaced, that was as he'd feared. If the Lich King had wanted her returned, he would have made it so. The very absence of her children had been glaring evidence to him, but ignored as so many things were to Tirion. "I am not Arthas, Besseth. That is true. Arthas has fallen. We make our way the best ways that we can now. I believe we have a place in all of this. I believe you have a destiny, which you have not even stepped onto the path of. You told me once that you could never stand by and see one of your children go without your care, your training…" Those eyes fell on him, measuring, contemplating, "…But that is exactly what you've put us through all of this time. We looked at you and we saw the potential for greatness. And you demanded that we not go there. Not touch that. You lived, rotting and small, while we, while he offered you glory. He doted upon you, if you would have asked for anything, it would have been yours. But you did not ask. Then he just gave, and you just hid the majority of what he gave. You owned that…" He flicked his fingers in her direction, "An example of the finest armor that Icecrown's artisans ever produced, but… You weren't big enough to wear it, were you? So you bound yourself in what you were big enough to, stolen trash taken from a battlefield. You flaunt the items he gave you before he was capable of turning you, but once the game changed, you pulled back away from it. When his gifts carried an expectation that you grow large enough to adequately use them…" He sighed, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. "You've run out of excuses, Besseth. You wanted to live. I understand that. To take up all of this, would have meant dying. That is no longer an issue. What excuse do you take up now?"

"Excuse?" He was impressed; her tone was weighty, and as frigid as the lands outside.

"Excuse. To keep you from where you belong, leading death knights. Helping to lead our people? I'm not asking you to serve me, I'm asking for your help. As always."

"I…." She flushed pale, and he sighed. How could someone so confident, assured, turn so quickly? She seemed to be in perpetual flux between gloriously commanding and skittishly furtive. Now he understood why Arthas had always seemed so bemused when it came to this one.

"I'm not Arthas, Besseth. You worshipped him, I'm only asking you to work with me."


	7. Chapter 7

Diarmid was wary. Besseth had been way too quiet, for way too long. He understood sulking, and wasn't at all surprised that this was her reaction. But Besseth liked eating, if it was an option. She'd done without too many times to turn away from food if it was available. Stubborn was one thing. Hungry was another.

He glanced at the tray on the table next to him, his gaze going to Bredit. "She's gone without for a long time." He didn't need to lift the cover to know that food was long since cold. "Maybe she's asleep." It was a weak idea, who slept after they'd been risen? It had taken days before he'd calmed down enough to even consider it. Another week after that before he'd managed it.

"Hardly." Bredit knocked on the door, and Diarmid was not surprised when the answer was silence. He grimaced at her warily, before pulling the catch and pushing the door open slowly. The room beyond was silent. Dark. Empty.

"She's gone." He noted the obvious, and Bredit pushed past him, moving to the center of the room. She knelt, spreading her fingers over the dull floor, her nose wrinkled in thought.

"She gated out." Bredit muttered, and he sighed in disgust. Besseth might be a newly risen death knight, but she was also an older death knight, rich with experience. They weren't going to keep her pinned down, relying on her lack of know how. The Lich King had granted her an array of spells that very closely mimicked those of a risen death knight, and now she had the internal power to use the true ones without difficulty.

"To where?" He muttered, running over the possibilities in his mind. They were few, but that was not necessarily a blessing. The majority of the open focus points would have taken Besseth deep into Icecrown. Surely she wasn't going to throw it all away on a suicide run into the fallen citadel?

"Home. The hold."

Well, that was better than the focus point just a few rooms distant from the Frozen Throne. He sighed in disgust, then chuckled. She might be gone, but she'd left a note, brazenly bright against her pillow.

He picked it up, opened it, and quickly scanned its contents. "Declan, my dearest son…" He began aloud; not at all surprised that it had been left for his twin specifically. "Blah blah Mograine blah blah see what he wants blah blah work this out blah blah too early to see Tabitha blah blah tell her I love her and will be back soon blah need to feed blah blah, love Besseth." He paraphrased and Bredit giggled in reply. "So she's gone to Mograine. If she doesn't kill him, this could be a good thing." She had to bend on this sometime, better immediately rather than later.

"Indeed." Bredit agreed, and he refolded the fine vellum sheet. Just another day and another step forward….

Mograine had been correct; Besseth had not survived all of her time in the Lich King's court without gaining enemies. Most had ignored her or overlooked her, exactly as she had hoped. Some had noted her all too well, but their attentions had been positive, or an attempt to curry favor or perhaps training. And some had chosen to belittle her, laugh scornfully, their eyes filled with the flash of arrogant poison when they looked upon her. Worse had been those who overlooked her and placed their targets squarely on her children's heads. Declan and Diarmid were beautiful, glorious, and often despised. When those realized that the family had bent, gone to Mograine, it would be a slaughter. Besseth intended to bring the slaughter to them, first.

"What do you sssssseek?"

She sighed in undisguised disgust, resting her hands on the rise of her pommel, comfortably over the deeply carved skulls decorating it. Why John had decided to suddenly cling to her like a teasel was beyond her. He'd always been happy enough to grant her a wide berth before. The pair, Besseth mounted on a new, greatly sized dreadcharger, her original one, risen so long ago seemed to be a memory, and John, stood on a windswept rise, staring into Icecrown. Her targets wouldn't be there, that she was fairly certain of. They would have scattered, hidden, found shelter in the milder areas of Northrend. She just had to find them before they found her. Or the twins. Now that she was on the ground again, Declan would pop up like the first thistle in a spring field, stuck to her side. Where he was, that was where Diarmid would settle… "Those who will seek us when they realize we have settled with Mograine. I would rather hit them before they come to that information…"

He hunkered against the rising breeze, his ember red eyes flicking between her and the direction the wind came from. "I ffffffind, yesssss?"

"Why would I trust you to find me anything?" Why was he here? She understood that Khraben had fallen, and that loss hurt. Khraben had usually been John's master, his leash holder, but now he was gone. But of course John was not gone. The geist was just too devious to die that easily. "Khraben is gone. The twins wouldn't hunt you if you disappeared…" The hint was broad, and the geist laughed like the whisper of dead leaves crossing a courtyard.

"No." He disagreed, and Besseth stared into the boiling sky with undisguised disgust. What in the hell had she done to deserve this? Dead. And stuck with John, still. "You arrrre rrrright. Moooovvvvve now, againssssst thossse who will moovvvvve againsssst ussssss. Dessssttttroy them alllll."

Of course she was right, that went without saying. And the twins would wait for the enemies they knew were coming to show themselves, she had not buffed away their noble leanings. She hadn't tried very hard, either. She loved them the way that they were, and that nobility was so much part and parcel of it. "What is it going to take to get rid of you?" She demanded bluntly, and the geist froze into stillness beside her.

"Not leavvvvving." John hissed, "Nevvvvvver evvvvver."

Besseth sighed, a single strand of gold mixing from her bound hair to flow with the black horsehair crest of her helm. The idea of dealing with this one for a very long time had little appeal; she'd done enough of that when she'd been alive. "It's over and done, John. Call it quits."

"Noooooo…." He sat up, ridiculously like a dog on his hindquarters, to rise in height equal to the bottom of Besseth's stirrup. "You don't get rid offffff me. Evvvvver. Sssssstilllll mine."

"You are seriously demented." She muttered in response. "You can't touch me ever again."

"Trrrrrruuuue, nooootttt likkke thhhhat." He nestled up against the dreadcharger, using its barding as protection from the sharpening breeze. The charger was, of course, beyond reaction, its chamfron adorned head turned deliberately in the direction that Besseth had pointed it.

"I gave myself to Tibault…."

The geist exploded into wheezing laughter, and she inclined her jaw to glare down at it. "Gavvvve yoursssself to Arthhhaassss." He managed through the noise. "Blood and assshhhhesss, Lady Besheth. Blood and assshhess beatssss gold every day."

She dragged her gaze up, staring at the horizon with a newly resigned acceptance. Blood and ashes beat gold every day. Uther's blood and Terenas's ashes beat Tibault's gift of gold. "I hate you." She growled, and he chuckled again, tidily tucked under the dreadcharger's girth.

"Nnnnnot that fffffond offff you, eittthhhher." She felt the shift of weight as he crawled into the charger's empty ribcage and snuggled down. "Thhhhey aren't here. Sssssouth, easssst or wesssst."

"You look dire, Anselm." Tirion sighed, and Anselm nodded. While he personally could not deny there was a certain joy in seeing Besseth again, he could see that this brought problems with it. If she indeed went to Mograine, then she'd be working with the Order hand in glove.

"I have news from Acherus." He stated, waiting until Tirion nodded at the chair before he sat. "Problematic news."

"Of course. None of Mograine's news would be anything but problematic. Good, bad… all problematic." The aging paladin refolded his maps and combat reports, granting the younger paladin his full attention. "What is it now?"

"Besseth Kellemen rose."

Both of Tirion's brows leapt for his hairline in undisguised surprise. They'd accepted it as a possibility, but all had been expecting more time, and some warning. This had come from nowhere. "What?" Tirion sputtered, and Anselm shrugged. "Is this some trickery?"

"No. I laid eyes on her myself. She has risen. With a full measure of an older death knight's power, there's no denying that. She feels like Mograine does. Deep. Rich. No lack. I believe she may go to Mograine, which will put her on the ground in Northrend."

"It's hard enough to face the Scourge with the idea that they might have been someone you knew." Tirion muttered, "But the Ebon Blade is full of souls we know we knew. You don't sound as distraught as I would have thought…?"

Anselm considered the thought carefully. It was one thing for his mother, no longer in the Order, admittedly scarred and bruised from the Purge, to accuse him of corruption. Another to step before the Highlord and admit he had feelings that could be construed as such. But to lie to Tirion was a greater crime…. "I love Besseth. To see her standing is a joy. To hear her again is a joy. I won't deny that." He dropped his gaze and studied her hands. "She feels good, Highlord. Strong and whole. Furious as a wet cat in a Tanaris sandstorm, but she'll get over that. We haven't lost her. I haven't lost her." Was he truly that selfish? Straying from the path that far? That was the question in his eyes when he looked back at Tirion.

"Anselm, boy. Don't doubt the love you feel for that woman. I'd be a hypocrite, after accepting Mograine's help, bringing the Ebon Blade in, to tell you that they are undeserving monsters. Besseth was always what she was, even when she served the Order. If you tell me she has risen well, then that is what she has done. It will be painful to see, but such is the way of the world."

"And Tibault?"

Tirion sighed, shaking his head. "Their oaths were death did them part. The Church considers their marriage no more. I know there are death knights who died together, who consider themselves still married, but that is a mutual agreement. I don't see Tibault accepting this… The more glorious she has risen as, the less likely he is to."

Anselm sighed in poorly disguised disgust, leaning back and closing his eyes. "She has risen most gloriously." He affirmed, feeling the heavy weight of the Highlord's measuring gaze.

"By Tabitha. I find that difficult to believe."

"Apparently not Tabitha. As it was explained to me, Besseth was risen when she fell, in the Cathedral of Darkness, presided over by Kel'thuzad and the Lich King. She refused to come, but all that was needed was a call she would not ignore…. Tabitha's. But the child performed no necromancy, that was all Kel'thuzad's doing."

"Good." Tirion muttered, and Anselm nodded in agreement. Not necessarily good that Kel'thuzad had done it, but definitely so that Tabitha hadn't.

Declan turned the vellum over in his fingers. "She went to Northrend? Alone?" Too many things about that bothered him. She was freshly risen, had not fed, her information was four years old, and she was now loose in Northrend. It had all the makings of a pure disaster.

"Nay, she's not alone." Bredit disagreed, and he stared at her. Diarmid mirrored the motion, so obviously his twin didn't know either. "She has the geist with her."

Both of the male quel'dorei stared at her in horror. "Well, now." Diarmid breathed, "That makes it all better, doesn't it? We just got her to raise, and he'll do his best to get her destroyed. I see no flaws in this at all."

Declan had to agree. The pair of them would go out of their way to get the other one destroyed. Besseth despised John, and that feeling was returned in equal measure by the geist. "Why? I don't see Besseth bringing him along…" And he didn't see the geist going even if she did. She had never commanded it to do a single thing before. If she could have, it wouldn't exist, because Declan couldn't see her giving a command that didn't end with the geist going splat after a long fall that even it could not recover from.

"I don't either. But I know that he went after her, and that he is with her." Bredit shrugged. "He told me he would not be around to keep an eye on Tabitha, that it fell to us again, that he was going with Besseth. And then he was gone."

Declan growled. Sometimes that damned geist was more trouble than he was worth.

"Prey." It was a strange sensation, as if the dreadcharger's chest was speaking, and Besseth frowned. She dropped her eyes to her saddle, knowing that the geist huddled beneath her, protected in the dark cave of caparison, saddle, ribcage and barding.

She glanced at the ground, seeing tracks, and shrugged. Certainly they were prey, if one was looking to target flesh and blood, with clean souls. Besseth was here to target things with a lot more teeth than a caravan, or refugee group.

"Not worthwhile prey. And protected by the Ebon Blade." That same Ebon Blade as the tabard she wore, as protected her family.

"They will atttttract your wwwwortttthhhy prey."

Ah, so that was what he was on about. A juicy group would bring what she wanted out of the hills much easier than her going in to go find them herself. Too tempting… The dreadcharger shifted direction, falling into step on the same path as the tracks.

"We're being followed."

Besseth bit back a slew of sarcastic replies to that. She was a heartbeat away from the caravan's guards, had been following closely for over an hour, and now they finally felt her? But the darkness, the thick clinging of snow fog, all gently hid her.

"Who goes?" One of the guards demanded, moving into the middle of the road and staring in her general direction. The caravan kept moving, but the back four guards had peeled off, staggered behind him.

"Besseth….of the Ebon Blade." She identified, although the words didn't come easily, and the man relaxed slightly…. Until the fog parted and the clouds above parted, painting Besseth in a perfect beam of eerie moonlight. The geist had been asleep until the voices had startled him, and he responded by growling sleepily, muffled in the depths of the charger's body.

The eldest of the guards froze, confronted with a massive dreadcharger who seemed to growl, and a fine example of a death knight. "By the Light…what is that?" One of the men muttered.

"Death knight." Another one was coming from the caravan, and Besseth watched her come. Druid, elven, Kal'dorei and not the Quel'dorei she was so familiar with. "One of Mograine's?"

"So it claims."

It? Besseth was almost insulted, and by the increasing pitch of John's yowling snarl, he agreed. "Hush, John." She stated, and was surprised when he obeyed instantly.

"What are you doing?" The druid demanded, her eyes narrowing, her stare focused much lower than Besseth's helmed face. She was probably trying to figure out why the charger's barrel made a noise of its own, since that seemed to be where she was looking.

"Riding." The lowered faceplate gave Besseth's normally deep, dark voice an utterly fine reverberation.

"Riding where?" Honestly, Besseth did not know. She had lost track of her direction hours ago, and hadn't really been worried about where she was headed. She was fine, she felt better than she had in a long time, and Northrend's calm was a soothing truth. If she really needed to know where, then she could figure it out. But she didn't need to.

"Down the road." She tried dropping her voice slightly, and if possible, that sounded even more ominous. But enough fun… "Hunting."

"Hunting?" The closest guard demanded warily. His distance was concern, the druid's was distain.

"We hunt those who do not bow to either the new Lich King, or the Ebon Blade. Those who will use this time of transition to their advantage… to commit atrocities."

"We?" The guard asked in the moment that the druid was silent. That silence did not last long, before Besseth could reply, the druid laughed.

"You hunt rogue Scourge alone?"

"Ssssssshhhhhheeee is neeevvvvvveeer alllone." The caparison bulged and the geist appeared, clinging grotesquely upside down to the side of the charger, balanced by Besseth's stirrup leather. His eyes glowed in the darkness, coal warm.

The druid snarled, and the closest guard backed several steps closer to the still moving caravan. His companions glanced nervously between Besseth and the dubious safety of that caravan. "Geist." The druid's voice was damning, and John laughed in answer, leveraging his insubstantial weight onto Besseth's shoulders. She could feel the weight of his noose dangling; it felt heavier resting under the edge of her helm than his entire weight was. "Geeeiiisssssssst." He retorted back, and the druid muttered something in Darnassian. It was quite profane, if the term matched the very close equivalent to the Thalassian word that Besseth's mind helpfully provided.

"Very crude." Besseth responded in Thalassian, and the druid hissed in displeasure.

"Do not spew that abomination at me, exiled one. Fallen one. Twice failed, once to your people and once to your living soul…"

The geist adorning her shoulders chuckled. "Ffffoolll elllffff thhhhinksss you are one asssss well, ffffor nothhhhhing more thhhhhan you ssssspeak a language. Thhhhesssse are fffffoolssss, missssstressssss. Let usssss carry on, ifffff we will not blood ourssssselvesssss upon them…"

Besseth hated it when he was right. But bait didn't need to be bright, in fact, it was better if it wasn't.

For the first time since her raising, Besseth dozed, tucked safely into a darkened corner of the Vrykul burying chamber. The caravan was within view, John patrolled ceaselessly…. From the lintel above her corner, slinking silently across the ceiling to the crack…popping his head up to glance at the safe caravan…down the wall…across the floor to Besseth…back up to repeat it all over again. She had been down for hours when the caravan made preparations to move, and he dropped heavily onto her lap, peering intently into her face.

"By the Blessings of the Light…" She complained when her eyes snapped open to his visage. "Is this how it's going to be all the time? John, go home."

He ignored the order as he did every one she threw at him, swarming back to the crack and whining intently. "Thhhhheyyy mmmmovvvve."

"'Wake up, Besseth!' works as well, or better." She grumbled, planting the helm on her head and moving towards the crack.

"Name too hard." He spat in answer. The noose and mask robbed him of his ability to speak correctly, and the name that she had was often just too much to attempt to manage. Too many sibilants in it. "Ugly name anywwwway." Too much for what she had been, too large, too preposterous for a guttersnipe as she had been. It fit now, now that she was a great and fine entity, but back then, anything more than 'woman' was too much for her.

She stared at him for a long moment, obviously looking for just the correctly cutting answer, and he waited patiently. He could handle this. What he could not handle was if she really put her heart into making him go. She could, and then what? Mograine would not take him if she truly wanted him to go…she was too valuable to annoy. She would never cease her hatred, but if he could convince her of his value, she might calm.

"James liked it." She answered, and his stomach clenched, the growl rising unbidden from his lips. She had an armory of attacks that her children did not share, a memory of the time before. In fact, memory beyond what he himself still possessed. So much of that time was foggy, obliterated to him…until she pulled out references like that one. It was like James had just been born and died all over again, at her bidding. "Yes, John, I will go there. You got him killed. You got him raised."

"Thhhheyyy were your cccccreattttionsssss." John growled. "Declan. Diarmid. Khraben. Yyyyyou did not cccccontrollll them." They were the ones who had snatched John and his brother from their beds. Destroyed them both, but for the death of him, John couldn't remember much. James had died. Of that, he was certain. Anything after that, no. His existence was too filled with his own raising… so much lost. "Yyyyyou could notttt." And that was the bottom line to all of this. As a living servant of the Lich King, Besseth had created monsters, great, brilliant monsters, that she had not a hope of controlling. They adored her. They paid her lip service, called her lady to her face...and had done not a damn thing that she had ever told them to. She had been the weak and pale mother to a pack of vicious, violent, glorious children. Only now did she have to chance to put them in their place, and now that was needed more than ever. The Master had fallen. They did not hear the chains of the new master closing around them, because those chains weren't closing. Mograine could not control them. That task fell to Besseth, and she finally had the strength to manage it. "Ttttttthhhhheyyyy dessstroyyyed Jammesssss, and thhhhhat, you did not wwwwant."

"The Master told me he wanted them." She sighed, climbing from the crypt and summoning the dreadcharger. "His wish was my will. I was not there when they came for the pair of you. You are a superlative geist. I can only assume…." She raised a gauntleted hand to shade her eyes against the pale sunlight, and John waited silently. "That James made a superlative lich. I did not seek him out; I felt it was best that way."

Ah, so she did have the answer. He dragged after her, his noose sliding along the salty snow. A lich. It was so much more than he could have dared hope for. Fine. Respectable. Rich with power and intellect. She had risen as a lovely death knight. James as a lich. And he, he paid for his sins every moment now. "Tttthhhhhank you, Besssssss." He muttered, and she paused in shock, pulling the helm off again to stare at him. "I kkkkknow you inntervvvvened on hissss behalf tttthhhhhhat day."

"I bore no ill will against James. He tried. Given the chance, he might have been a good man. He just didn't know how."

At her words, John's noose caught on a rock, yanking him back. He grumbled, freed it, and carried on behind her. He didn't need any more reminders… or need Besseth to go any deeper. He had been the reason why James didn't know how, and that fact hung in the cold air, unspoken.

She reached out, grasped the dreadcharger's reins, before turning a look of steady, calm hatred upon him. "But if we're touching this, John… Just remember this…."

He braced, curling his fingertips and toes into the ice, leaning into the rising breeze.

"You killed my babies. I'm sure the first was yours, or James's. And there is a good chance more were as well. I will never forgive. I will never forget. Serve me at your own risk." She gracefully leveraged herself into the saddle, spun the dreadcharger around, and forced John to scamper after her until he got close enough to leap onto the charger's rump.

Besseth was in a well and true foul mood when the wind shifted and brought a familiar noise with it. John must have been sulking, because his intrigued snort and hurried scuttle to rest upon her shoulders came only after she had turned the dreadcharger to face the noise head on, and had stopped.

"Hellllllllhounddddssss." The geist muttered, and she nodded. "Deatttthhhh knight hunnnnting?"

Probably. And more than a little of Besseth's bravado threatened to fade. Only as a paladin, had she channeled real power. And here she was, miles away from any backup more impressive than the geist. And while he was most certainly an impressive geist, she'd love to have something a lot more formidable standing at her back. The paired glory of Declan and Diarmid, most certainly.

"Ssssecondddd thhhoughtssss?" The geist asked with uncanny perception, and she growled.


	8. Chapter 8

I am not afraid. Besseth told herself as the dreadsteed moved up onto high ground, overseeing the gentle valley. Unfortunately, that was not the truth. She was afraid. This was a damn fool idea, and she cursed herself and Darion Mograine vividly for coming up with it. She almost turned the steed's head, moved away, but the waxing hunger that had driven her this far held her on the rise, motionless. "I hunger." She breathed, and the geist chuckled, climbing the steed's side to perch on its rump behind her.

"You hhhhhunnnnger." He breathed like it was the greatest statement he had ever heard in his existence. "Ttttthhhhheennn feeeeeed."

"Tell me who it is, first." What had rested as a nagging desire now flared into need. It had been so long since she'd been this hungry…. And even then, that had just been a hunger of body. This was more.

He launched himself off of the dreadsteed's back, and vanished in a single bound. He reappeared a few moments later, bounding back to his perch. "Annnnamorassss." He chuckled, and Besseth hissed in spite of herself. "Hassss ssssseven hhhhhellhoundssss."

Anamoras. That one was even worse than those who had targeted her. Or targeted the twins. His target of choice had always been Bredit. Besseth was not above doubts when it came to her choices of children… had she known then what she knew now, she would have tried to turn away from Ellorie, who had been both worthy and yet desperately annoying to deal with. But Bredit was never one that Besseth had doubted. That was the daughter she had never failed to hold in pride. Stolid. Unyielding. Intelligent in a calm, deliberate manner. One of the foundation rocks that Besseth had built the family on…it was rather odd that they had been the ones to survive. But then, most of them had been at home, watching Tabitha, when things fell apart. Bredit had been Declan's choice, or had chosen to be Declan's choice to help him raise Tabitha…it had put her miles away from Icecrown.

"Does he feel of the Helm?" She asked, as tempting as Anamoras alone out in the depths of Northrend was, she wasn't here to step on toes…at least until those toes kicked her first.

"Nnnnnnnoooo." John answered, placing his hands on her shoulders to leverage himself up; she could feel him staring unyieldingly in the direction he had just come from. "Wwwwouldn't be here tttttrackkkkinnnggg caravansssss iffffff he wwwere."

"I'm tracking caravans."

He didn't bother to answer. Besseth was tracking a caravan because it was bait. But a follower of the Helm, one who still answered the Throne, and its new king, would not be out here. And even Darion was smart enough to not take this malcontent in.

"I ttttake the hhhoundsss." John hissed, shifting his weight impatiently. "Yyyyyou take Annnammmmorassss."

He had a lot more faith in her than she happened to have. Or he was looking for the easy way to destroy her, and remain blameless.

"Bbbborn of Kelllll'tthhhhuzzzzaddd. Gifffffted with Arthhhhhassss's pppower and the ffffinessst of hissss workssss…and ssssstilllll you doubttttt." The geist mourned, resting his chin on the horsehair crest of her helm. "Affffraid of thhhhhiiiissss paltry fffoe…"

He yelped and scrambled for balance when the dreadsteed powered into a gallop.

Anamoras was bored, and hungry. It was a volatile mixture, and finding the trail of the caravan had amused him…slightly. What did not amuse him was the wary whining of the hellhounds, their cautious sniffing, and he dismounted to see what the fuss was about. There was a separate, distinct set of tracks to the west of the caravan…. Flanking and following. The sparse grass and lichens had frozen in the tracks, dead as dust under his fingertips. A dreadsteed. A big one…his hand would almost fit spread in the circular prints. Who? Before, the answer would have been easy and obvious… dreadsteed equaled death knight. Death knight equaled, if not friend, then not foe. Now, things were not that easily ascertained. Mograine's traitorous fools. Those whose wills were not equal to the task of shrugging off the newly taken up Helm, and its resigned new wielder. And those who wanted no part of either of those foolish, vapid, forces. He would not bow to Mograine ever again. And he would never bow to a paladin at heart who bore but did not revel in the Helm. That was death by stasis, and he knew that.

One of the hellhounds barked a warning, and his eyes narrowed when he caught sight of the dreadsteed standing motionless on a moraine. Big, indeed, its glowing blue eyes visible through the wan illumination of perpetual twilight. Its rider was helmed, features obscured, but enough was visible for Anamoras to pick out the fact that the rider wore the colors of the Ashen Verdict, almost as an afterthought over its glorious set of armor.

"I don't know you." He whispered, "But I should." How could he not know this one? This one was old. Powerful. Blatantly geared in one of the finest sets of harness produced by Icecrown…and this bowed before Mograine? Now?

The rider's light colored cloak, an oddity, flared, and a geist peered intently around its waist, eyes glowing like smoldering embers in the fitful light. "Aaaannnammmmorrrrassss." It hissed loudly. "The mmmisssstrrressss would llllike to sssspeak to youuuuuuuu."

Anamoras had few delusions. There was no reason why one of the Verdict would want to speak to him, but he was still curious. Who was this? And how had Mograine swayed them into his service. Mistress? Female, and yes, the smaller frame of the rider upheld either that gender, or it was a male elf. "And does the mistress have a name?" He demanded, summoning his own dreadsteed underneath him. It wasn't as fine as the one facing him, but he would not grant that one any more of an advantage than they already had.

The rider reached up, removed the helm, and his heart took a few moments to sink…because it took him a few moments to put a name to her. He didn't recognize her, because he'd never met her…as this…before. Blonde hair, bound tightly up, much fairer than the last time he'd seen her. Steady, brilliant blue eyes. A strong face, born not of nobility, but still a flower of Lordaeron… Besseth Southcross. Risen. He'd seen her dying…her crimson blood spilled over the ice of the Argent Crusade bivouac outside of the Citadel, and after that, spilled over the flagstones of the inner courtyard of the Citadel itself. Carried into the Cathedral of Darkness by her children, trailed by Arthas and Kel'thuzad, where she had died at their hands, on the altar. The rumor was that she had failed to raise, even with that kind of power focused on her, but that rumor was obviously a lie. That was Besseth Southcross. And that level of power had come from just the sources he'd been told… Kel'thuzad and the might of the Frozen Throne, focused by the only soul with the right to do so…Arthas, the true Lich King.

He pondered his options. There were any number of reasons why Besseth would want to speak to him, and none of them were good. "Besseth Southcross." He hailed back, and he'd be damned if he gave this one Kellemen's name. "Still a damnable fool, I see."

The geist, now accurately identified, heckled him back, but Anamoras ignored him, his attention focused upon Besseth. "Serving Mograine? After you were the only one bright enough to point out, and keep pointing out, that he was unworthy?" She remained silent, her gaze planted firmly upon him. "And now….now that you have risen, you serve him?" The woman had never made any sense whatsoever.

She raised a brow, then chuckled. "The more options we have, Anamoras, the fewer choices we are given."

Any doubts that this was truly Besseth faded in that moment. She had that voice, and that ability to cut to the ground of a problem. More options…Bolvar, Mograine, rogue… and fewer choices. "Bolvar will never command those of us with wills intact, Besseth. Not without a great struggle. Mograine is the full faced fool you have always called him. There really is only one choice."

"And that is?" Her deep, ominous voice was countered with the geist's less than amused growling and snapping.

"We rule ourselves. Here, on our lands. To hell with Mograine. To hell with Bolvar. None of them are the true and rightful King, and you, of all people….know that!" Besseth's loyalties had never been questionable, her intelligence, yes… her devotion, never.

"None of them are the true and rightful King, that is a fine truth indeed, Anamoras. Mograine is Mograine; I need not air my issues again. I have been proven correct. Bolvar cannot, will not, embrace us. We will forever be nothing but a great and onerous duty he performs, and that makes my heart cry in answer. We were loved; valued, cherished….I will not fall to becoming a paladin's terrible task. But all of this is beyond the true point here, Anamoras."

"Which is?"

She stared through him. "You have bitten at the heels of my family for a decade. Insulted me. Insulted them. Connived and strived to whittle them away to nothing. Targeted Bredit. I did not have the repertoire to accurately answer these insults before, Anamoras, but I do now. And I hunger."

He heard fate close a door then. He nodded, pulling his own runeblade from its scabbard and turning his dreadsteed to face her. "Then, Besseth….valued servant of the one true king, come and get me."

She nodded, dropping her helm back on and spinning the dreadsteed around. The geist launched itself from her mount, and Anamoras already knew what its targets were. He'd brought hellhounds to the fray; she brought one of the finest geists ever created. Hopefully, the hounds could hold John's attentions long enough for him to cut Besseth down…it was the only chance he had. At least she stood alone, no sign of Declan or Diarmid.

Her dreadsteed was in full stride when she gestured to him, and he almost laughed. She was going to grip him to her? Bring him that close? She was just a child to this… a newly born, for all of her experience. She also was the sort who would bow to her conqueror… maybe she didn't need to be destroyed after all. If he could take her, intact, she'd bring her children with her… He'd have Besseth on his left hand side, and her offspring behind him. With that, he would bring validity to his quest to sway those with minds and souls intact. He could lead those who turned away from Mograine and Bolvar.

It was a split second of a thought, gone when the grip did not yank him from his high cantled military saddle, but yanked the dreadsteed right out from underneath him. She dropped the yank the moment it caught, and his mount rolled head over heels through where she had been just a breath before…carried forward by her own steed's ground eating charge.

He landed badly, flat on his shoulder blades, insult added to injury when the geist decided that rolling right over the top of him, nails scrabbling on his armor, was the quickest way to intercept the pursuing hellhounds.

"Hah hah!" It wheezed triumphantly, the end of its noose dragging along behind it, its toes grabbing purchase against Anamoras's shoulders as it launched itself into a great leap.

He leapt to his feet, runeblade at guard, as the massive dreadsteed bore down upon him. He had to get her on the ground, that unholy two handed axe she wielded would double as a fine lance, and if she ran him down, it was all over.

He mimicked the same gesture she had used against him, and got the usual result; she was yanked from the dreadsteed and ripped towards him. He set his weight… Besseth had died with a great deal of healthy weight; she had been a paladin, and not a small one, when she had fallen. She'd still be carrying it, plus another eight stone of armor added to it. And the charging impetus of the dreadsteed…she was going to hit him like an abomination rolling down a hill. And she did, colliding with a sickening crunch. She had been expecting it, and replied by slamming her talon spiked elbow guard into his faceplate. The world spun, but he twisted, bracing his weight against her elbow and flinging her out away from him, at sword reach.

"Getting fat, Lady Besseth?" He spat, not surprised to see blood when he did so. "Shame you had to go and die toting around all that birthing weight." He doubted she would fall for insults, but it still made him feel better. Her only audible response was a snort before she powered into her next attack, bringing the weight of her comprehension of illness and how it flowed to bear against him. There was the sudden flurry of yips, snarls and whines as her geist hit the hellhounds, they were outclassed, but they were on their own. He had his hands filled trying to keep the wave of illness from dragging him to the ground. This is what she could have been the whole damned time? What a complete and total waste…

She clipped his forehead with the flat of the axehead, jerking his head backwards, and the last thing he saw was the cobalt gleam as she reversed direction with it to bring it down.

"Ehehehe." John mocked, climbing onto the back of the dreadsteed and watching from that perch. "Jjjjjackassss. Dead now!" Besseth had no response for him, stunned, empty and now sated. She sat on the ground next to Anamoras's body, resting her forehead in her hands. It had been so easy, and she didn't remember Anamoras as a lightweight. The geist ended his celebration with a rude, long raspberry and then silenced, his coal eyes locked on her. "Hhhhhome." He stated. "Ssssllleeeeppp. Grassssp what isssss yyyoursss."

Grasp what was hers. The twins, Tabitha, a new place in the Ebon Blade. A new reality. Give up those parts of her life that didn't fit. The Order. Tibault. She stood slowly; moving to the dreadsteed's side and mounting.

There was a death knight, a stranger, on the balcony, and Declan hissed. How long they had stood there, their gaze held out over the waste of Lordaeron, he was uncertain. Nothing about their presence had caused an alert… and he got the feeling that they had been there more than a little while. There was a geist at the stranger's feet, curled comfortably, and Declan breathed in slowly, finally catching the color of the cloak in the darkness. She had returned to them…

"Mother?" He asked softly, and she removed the helm. He clenched his teeth, the spill of blonde hair over her shoulders was now blatantly lighter than it had been the last time he'd seen her. She'd have to be blind to miss it. And she was rarely blind.

"Declan." She had fed, and fed well, very recently. The axe propped beside her was still blooded, and the geist looked a little worse for the wear. And dreadfully smug… Declan glared at him, but the geist's only reaction was to cut loose with a noise suspiciously close to a purr.

"Welcome home." This had been so much easier when she was the one to deal with the tantrums and moodiness. He had no idea where to even begin. He rested a cautious hand on her shoulder, aware there was as much chance of her slapping him as of her accepting it.

"What do you want, Declan?"

The geist silenced, his eyes glancing between the pair, looking straight up the small amount of space between them. When Declan declined to answer, it chuckled, dropping its chin back onto his hands. "Allllllwayssss…." It muttered, organizing its noose more comfortably, "Hhhe wannntttssss you. Nnnnot asss a mottthhher."

Damn him. It was all that Declan could do to remain still, and not retaliate. That had always been something that she either had never noticed, or chose to overlook. "You are married." He noted, and she tilted her head to watch him. Her look was dubious and he sighed in defeat, weighing the hang of his arm so that she could feel it through the harness.

"I am dead." The phrase was heavy with defeat, and all he could do in answer was to lean his forehead against the back of her head, wrapping the arm around her shoulders. "Makes me married no longer."

"The man is a fool." Declan sighed. Tibault had to know by now. Anselm knew. He'd bet his soul that meant Tirion knew. And if Tirion knew, then it would be his stumbling paladin duty to coldly make certain everyone affected by it knew. "The geist is, however, correct. I am willing to wait until Tibault dies, but…" There it was. Out. Into the cold open, stated firmly just a couple of inches from Besseth's ear. He was damned. "I want to stand beside you, Besseth. With you. I am not your son. I am not your child. You have those now, those that are really yours… I am not."

She reached up, and rested the sueded fingertips of her gauntlets on his wrist, her gaze still vacantly held before her. It was not the steady relief and joy he'd been hoping for, but neither was it the denial filled rage he'd been dreading. "I wish you could see what I see." He mourned. So damned beautiful, finally. "What did Mograine say?"

His words would not be brushed away, they had been made whole, but he would give her the time to contemplate them at her own peace. He'd said them. They were in her hands now.

"Ebon Blade. Help him make it, keep it, lead it. He is correct, it is the only route we have for viability. Those who do not follow him or Bolvar are doomed to be picked off as rogue elements."

"And Bolvar?

Her placidly stunned expression faded, sharpened, enlivened. That woke her up, out of this lassitude. "No." She muttered hoarsely. "I served the true king, and he valued me. Working with Mograine, a man who still values me, fine enough. Bolvar will tend the Scourge because it is the right thing to do. It's the sacrificial last stand of a truly great paladin. He will never value us. I am not an onerous duty, Declan. I deserve better than that. You deserve better than that."


	9. Chapter 9

"You just asked me what I wanted." He sighed, "What do you want?"

Her grip on his wrist tightened, then she chuckled. "How long?" She asked, and he growled, ignoring the wise stare of the geist. She wouldn't answer until he did, he knew her well enough.

"A long time." He finally admitted, raising his gaze to stare at the same view as she was. "Years. I was waiting until you passed."

She snorted, shook her head. "I guess I'm blind. Always have been. What do I want now? I want to meet Tabitha. Then I'll decide what I do with Tibault…later."

Anselm walked, head down. He knew what he was carrying and every fiber of his being howled against it. He pulled the envelope from his pouch and stared at it. All very formal, sealed, beribboned, born in the depths of Stormwind's Cathedral. Written by those that had overseen Besseth's marriage, and later, Besseth's interment. "Damn you, Tibault." He swore, raising his eyes to gaze up upon Acherus. This was a scene he didn't want to be a part of. "Damn you." He moved to the transporter, and moved up, into the dark quiet of the necropolis. By now he was easily recognized, and knew his way to the family's apartments. He opened the door into the library, and froze.

Besseth sat in a chair, next to Tabitha. Both of them had their heads bent over the same book. The girl was intent on the page, but Besseth sensed his presence and raised her eyes to glance at him. Tabitha looked up, saw him, crowed with delight and slid under the table to run at him. He picked her up, swung her in the air, feeling the weight of Besseth's gaze as he did so. "Morning, little one." He grinned weakly, and Besseth's brow rose for her hairline. He frowned, nodded, and dug the missive out and handed it to her, turning himself and the child away when she took it. "I'm sorry, Besseth." He offered. "He won't see me. I tried."

"I knew it was coming. No surprise." She answered, taking her seat again, obviously not bothering to read it. "Sit with us."

He did so, placing the child back in her chair. "I don't know what to say." He said, and she shrugged, rubbing her fingers through Tabitha's hair. This was as if his parents had decided to call it done, perhaps worse, because he felt closer to Besseth than he did his blood mother, and Tibault had been a stronger father figure than his own.

"Anselm, there is nothing to say. If it is over, then it is over. Are we over?"

"No!" He spat, "I've told Tirion that." She stood, smoothing her skirts and he frowned. She looked good….better than good. The difference was as extreme as it had been earlier, from when she had been captured, and then a paladin. "And he is fine with that. He is, while a little saddened, fine with the realization that you have risen. As long as you stand with the Ebon Blade, you still stand with us."

She nodded. "Then you're good for continuing your training."

He grinned, oh, more than anything.

Besseth turned the letter over in her hands, both dreading its contents and relieved that the wait was over. Tibault… Open it and accept that her marriage was over, while Declan waited. How had she been so blind? But had she not been so blind, there would be no Tabitha. No Anselm. Declan had waited. Was willing to keep waiting, but he had that luxury. He could wait for her to die. Wait for Tibault to die. He had been there the whole time, and she had missed it.

Finally she flipped it over and tore it open, scanning the vellum within. No surprise there. Dissolution of marriage. Over. Done. Just like that. It had been such a short time, and now it was over. She dropped it on the floor, then erupted in a stream of profanities.

"Besseth?" Declan appeared in the doorway, concern stamped across his features. "What?" All she could do was point at the paper, and he strode to it, cautiously picking it up and reading it. "Oh." He murmured, dropping it back on the floor. "I…uh…."

And the damned fool was going to try to talk. She stepped up to him, throwing her arms around him. He sighed, and enveloped her in his grasp, resting his chin on the top of her head. "What?" He finally asked, and she asked herself the same question. What? What did she want? It was hard enough to get her mind around what had apparently been obvious to so many for so long. She glanced at her finger, still bound with Tibault's ring, and grimaced when Declan slowly reached out to slide it off. "There will be another." He promised, pocketing the ring. "This, I promise. We probably won't be able to find any foolish enough to marry us, but that will be their lack, never mine."

Besseth stood beside Mograine, staring out over Lordaeron, once again. It seemed like life, and now unlife, was determined to keep returning her to these lands. John hung motionless from the wall beside her, within Declan's reach, although the quel'dorei ignored him with the same focus that he usually did. "You asked for us to leave Northrend." Besseth prodded when the Dark Watcher remained silent in spite of the fact that the three of them had been present for quite awhile. "Can I ask why?"

He turned, his face gravely pensive. "Besseth. Declan. I offer my congratulations."

She frowned at him, her thumb rubbing the edge of the new ring binding her finger. Congratulations were in order, but Mograine had been present…he had been one of the attendees to the much smaller, darker, calmer ceremony that her binding to Declan had deserved. And, even with the undead, congratulations were rarely offered in such a dire tone.

"You gave us those earlier. Twice, if memory serves me correctly." Dour concern marked Declan's reply and Mograine nodded.

"I did, indeed. I want both of you here, in Lordaeron."

Besseth's gaze caught that of her new spouse, and she gave him half a shrug in answer. Mograine would get to it in his own sweet time… all high strung prophecy types were the same. The true king had cultivated them, and now Mograine was one as well. Patience was the only answer. "Lordaeron is secure." She stated when the silence outgrew even her patience.

"I know, for now. I sense…." He muttered, not bothering to bleed the confusion out of his voice. "A cataclysm approaching, and I need you both here."


End file.
